Timing..is it everything?

This late afternoon is hushed. Only the distant chirping of the house finch and the occasional fly interrupt the stillness, the absolute peace, a true moment of…. ? A pause? …An actual breath, a breath of which I am aware of drawing. 

All this I know because I am sitting on my porch for the first time since last, late September and I am listening.

I am basking.

 

What’s happening outside is not at all like the bubbling that is happening on my stove. The linguini, the masala sauce, that I am preparing act as if the world is coming to an end in 11 minutes, all boiling and, bubbling, and timed to explode. All. At. Once.

 

My timing is perfect.

 

I take pride in my timing.

 

Pride goeth before the fall.

 

I turn away from the stove and see that Caesar threw up on the floor.

He looks so downcast. He is so sad, hang dog, droopy ears, as if he expects me to chastise him. It’s the first time in six months since I’ve had him that he’s thrown up, that I’m aware he has thrown up. It makes me sad that he is ready to be chastised. Maybe that happened with his previous owner. I have yelled at him for other things, dangerous things, stuff that could cause injury to him or me.

 

This is new. I give him a hug, rub him behind the ears, try to soothe him as best I can and then I put him outside. I make short work of cleaning up his vomit and put a pot of rice on the stove (to serve, along with chicken bits) for the dogs; 20 minutes from boiling point.

 

I haven’t written anything in ever so long so I grab my iPad and sit down on the porch to compose something, something about the silence, my reverence for the silence.

It feels like the right time.

 

It doesn’t take long for the alarms to go off letting me know that the pasta and, soon, the rice are finished. It’s time to feed the dogs. It’s time to feed me. Maybe my timing isn’t so perfect. Maybe the writing is best left for another day.

 

Maybe I am wrong.