Friday, March 23, 2012

Scintilla, no. 8 | Sitting on Porches on Rainy Days

I asked Wolfman this morning what he thought my most simple pleasures are, and he answered, "honey, shade," and then a specific carnal act which I probably should not repeat here.  He was right on all counts, of course.  He knows me so well, knows how I thrill to see honey glistening over the foam of the red tea lattes he always mixes for me at the coffee shop, knows that if I can't find any shade, I will make my own whether it be with a parasol or large hat, or, in moments of desperation, book or paper.  And, then, of course, he knows me, as Shakespeare would say. 

The fact is, most of my pleasures are what I would consider simple.  I am made happiest by the same things that make most of us happiest, man, woman, child, or dog.  Tasty things, a loving touch, something cool on a hot day.  I find pleasure in burying seeds in black dirt.  I am pleased beyond measure when Wolfman nods and groans a positive affirmation over some meal I've cooked.  I love the feel of a skirt that twirls, swishing about my legs, and I love finding a good linoleum upon which to twirl (the floor of the break room in our building where I wait while heating water for tea is perfect). 

And while I am not, as Shirley Manson sings, only happy when it rains, I am extremely happy when it rains.  Two days this week we've woken to the sound of rain and thunder outside our open bedroom windows, and I can not ever describe the feeling that illicits in me; I am just not that good.  But, God, how happy I am.  And oh, God; is that you?  In Albuquerque, where horizons reign rather than trees, my mother would take me outside in the dusk to watch storms so far away, lightening miles and miles and miles from us, and we would both share a quiet furor.  And if I move to the other side of the country again, away from North Carolina, I will always remember its summer storms, and sitting on my grandmother's back porch, pressing my feet to the cold concrete and watching the rain fall in a curtain, being misted when the wind blows, listening to the cacophony of her many windchimes, the porch ceiling just covered in them.  I love sitting on porches on rainy days, more even than honey. 

And what are Wolfman's simple pleasures?  Ginger, fixing broken things, and a specific carnal act which I probably should not repeat here.

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