Room With A View

Solitary Spaces

I try to take one day at a time, but sometimes several days attack me at once. - Jennifer Yane

Today, I woke up to cold.

Yes.

Chilly. Crisp. Brisk. Sweater weather.

Seated on my thrifted rocking chair, facing the glass walls that looked onto the deck, I was waiting for blessings that weren’t in disguise.

But I was content. This was one of my favorite solitary spots in the house.

My room with a view.

Looking out, I could see lilac petals that had fallen, rushing along the slatted floor; then stopping, victims of the sporadic wind.

Through the open window, I could hear nothing behind me but the singing of chickadees and the shlush of the freshening breeze across the maple tree.

A red robin darted between its limbs, cutting through the shaft of the dimming sunlight. Meanwhile, a single bird flew by at eye level, then shot straight up to the neighbor's treetops. 

On the deck's corner post, a baby pigeon looked like it had fallen asleep on its perch. Then, it opened one eye, identified me as relatively harmless and closed it again.

Close by, an ugly squirrel glared at me indignantly between the English ivy covering the deck railing. Why did I have shush him every time he raided the birdseeds off the feeders? 

Farther on, darting from behind the neighbor's wood pile, I saw a chubby jack rabbit leisurely hopping up August's branch (the tree so-named by Second Granddaughter because it had sprouted on her birth month).

But sad to say, I've missed seeing our resident chipmunk Chip emerge from underneath his reclaimed home underneath the old sandbox.

Dark clouds were now hanging low and the wind was beginning to blow in gusts. Soon, it would rain. Perhaps, an early snowfall?

It was turning out to be in fact a thoroughly unpleasant afternoon, cold and damp and cheerless and better spent indoors.

So, what to do? 

Take in this moment and make it special.

Lose my way, find my soul.

One room view at a time.

Where The Ducks Are

Solitary Spaces

Have you ever walked into, or just seen, a place and it seemed like home?

That was how I felt when I first came upon this solitary scene, somewhere on one of the streets perpendicular to Cactus Street near the college.

After lunch at Taco Bell or Jack in the Box, I found it somehow soothing to just stop by this unknown spot before I went back to work at the college.

It was like being home on my Little House on the Prairie.

As soon as I parked, I would spot its resident dog sprawled on the back porch, drowsy in the midday sun. He would open his eyes, his ears twitching. But seeing it was just me, he would close his eyes again and exhale heartily.

On top of the deck railing, a tabby cat sat like a stone sentry, its slightly raised fur a textured gauge of the wind when it picked up. I would wait for it to begin its leisurely grooming ritual to assure myself that it wasn't just the statue of a cat.

What I found most fascinating, however, were the feathered denizens on that solitary space.

Quacking ducks pecking, taking a speculative bite of whatever they were not supposed to eat. 

Clucking brown hen and four speckled chicks skittering out of the way.

And a stolid red robin, it eyes unwinking.

I could only stay for a few minutes and when my time was over, I would take a last long look, for I was afraid that I would never see it again the way I saw it at the time. I knew that eyes changed after they had looked at things and that if I were to go back the following day, my new eyes might make everything seem different. 

I wanted to remember it the way it was at the moment.

Peaceful.

And restful.

 

University Library

Solitary Spaces 

The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams. - Eleanor Roosevelt

Books were my place.

Plenty of dreams inside books.

So it may not be a surprise to you if I say that the reserved section of the university's main library was my favorite solitary place during my college days. 

On my final year as an English major, we were given access to the otherwise off-limits book collection so we could freely roam the stacks as we worked on our thesis papers.

I recall walking thru its doors, enveloped in the familiar peace of its high ceiling. The elegant, intellectual clutter. The air smelling of leather bindings, and quietly of paper.

Immediately, I was surrounded by bookshelves that reached from floor to ceiling, interrupted only by doors and windows. 

Books, hundreds of them. Old books on towering shelves.

I made a survey of the titles. The books, advertising all sorts of psychological behavior, were wedged tightly together and seemed not to have been read in a very long time.

The nearest volumes seemed to be histories, though many of the spines were hard to read in the low light. Dusty journals. A handful of National Geographics with curled-up corners. On the top shelf was a dusty green tome with gold lettering.

Not surprisingly, the place was empty (for this was a place only for the elite, I'd like to think.) This was a repository of ancient knowledge, completely different from what I had studied in the course of my many dry-as-dust lectures at the university.

For hours, I would wander, letting my hand brush across avenues of exposed spines, breathing in the smell of old paper and dust. Sometimes, I'd yank down a few volumes from their dusty haven, thumbing through pages and scanning for watermarks - an indication of first editions, I had learned.

Then, slipping into the literary criticism section, I fingered the edges of some volumes as my forehead crinkled in thought. I continued to turn pages, scrutinizing each one.

I really needed to start working on my thesis on Blake.

Seeking a warmly sunlit corner of the library, I finally settled with a few books that I had arranged on the top shelf of one of the carrels. I began to read and let the sunlight slanting through the window warm my downturned head and shoulders.

Reverently, I let my fingers glide over delightful discoveries of critical insights, new details, strands of images, and leitmotivs interlaced in Blake's poetry.

With that, and the musty scent of books, I could swear that I could hear the faint stirring of a tiger

Burning bright, in the forests of the night. 

What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

The massive emptiness of the university library was my place for dreaming especial dreams. The private times I had spent within were perhaps the most singular joy of my college days.

No other times did I feel that I had lived so fully.

Secret Garden

Solitary Spaces

Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose. - Unknown

Growing up, we never had the best house on the block or the most money, but I had one thing that nobody else had.

A secret garden. My solitary space.

It was tucked into a narrow spot on the side of our rental house in Balic-Balic (this was pre the two-for-five home on Fountain Street in Sampaloc). 

I was only four at the time and had no siblings to play with, as First Brother was only two, a Mama's boy who napped with Mum in the afternoons.

So what did I do?

I'd venture out toward my sheltering spot, curtained with the cadena de amor vine. I'd tear a couple of branches laden with heart-shaped pink blossoms for a crown. Blue forget-me-not flowers which were abundant alongside the house dangled from my lobes as earrings. 

Where the acacia tree grew, I would hunt for spiders that were laced onto a web. 

Oftentimes, I'd be distracted on the path ahead by some white stones. They were smooth and would fit into my palm.

Close by where rain water had gathered in a puddle, I would poke at the wet dirt and sniff its scent, loving its smell as others might love the smell of Formosan roses.

I just loved those afternoons when the bandera espanola stalks stood sleepily in the sunshine.

When the air was clean and silky I could see the tips of the mayana leaves bleached to pale yellow by the sunshine.

When everything was completely calm and the day was still and mild, preserved as if made for no one else's, but my solitary pleasure.

 

Where Have All The Flowers Gone?

My Songs

Where Have all The Flowers Gone, a song dealing with way wars destroy an entire generation, was popularized by folk trio Peter, Paul and Mary in their 1962 debut album.

***

Someone said that as long as we live, there is never enough singing. 

Alas, for me, the soundtrack of my life has seemed to come to an end. No tune appeals to me anymore.

I can't even sing in my mind one line of the songs that I used to treasure.

So, where have all the flowers gone? 

Young girls have picked them, every one.

Where have all the young girls gone? 

Gone for husbands, every one.

Where have all my songs gone? 

Gone.

Fini

Thank Heaven For Little Girls

My Songs

Thank Heaven For Little Girls is a 1957 song written by Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe. It was sung by Maurice Chevalier in the 1958 film Gigi.

***

Music washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life. - Anonymous

It was a Mother’s Day of epic proportions.

I got a blue-and-tan striped shift dress and a Victoria magazine with a picture of an idyllic French countryside on the front cover.

And dangling cat's eye earrings from Pier One that sparkled when I laughed.

Best of all?

I had conned almost-four and five-year old daughters to sing at the Mother's Day tea in church. I thought my song selection was perfect.

Thank Heaven For Little Girls.

I had coached my innocent ones, teaching them gestures that went with each significant phrase. 

Those little eyes so helpless and appealing

When they were flashing

Send you crashing through the ceiling.

I remember listening, wide-eyed and stupid, as I accompanied them on the guitar.

I thought they looked like this.

They're older now.

For little girls get bigger every day

They grow up in the most delightful way.

But no matter how old they get, my heart will always be with them. 

Some days, when there aren't any songs in my heart, I quietly sing anyway. 

Thank heaven for my little girls. 

(To be continued)

Close To You

My Songs

Close To You is a song written by Burt Bacharach and Hal David. The best-known version is that recorded by the Carpenters American duo in 1970.

***

Music replays the past memories, awaken our forgotten worlds and make our minds travel. - Michael Johnson

Why do birds suddenly appear

Every time you are near?

The singing enveloped me. It was furry and resonant, coming from the heart. 

My insides were turning over.

Just like me, they long to be

Close to you

It was the year of a brief but intense infatuation for a good-looking, John Lennon look-alike, basketball superstar.

I remember how I would try to look cute in front of him, but would end up looking stupid.

How saying the nickname I created for him that only my best friend and I knew brought a smile to my face, a twinkle to my eye, and a skipped beat to my heart.

And every time he walked by and smiled... 

Oh, when he smiled... I'd melt and stars would fall down from the sky (even if it were broad daylight). 

Crushes were so awful. 

In my heart, I was singing.

Close to you.

Wa, close to you.

(To be continued)