When I sit at my desk to write, pay bills, sign permission slips, find recipes, or try to get the cat off of my lap, I often look to my left to get lost in the view as I’m thinking.
Thinking is hard.
To my left is a window. I leave the curtains open so I can get distracted by what I see. In the daytime, my view looks south over the rooftops of my neighbors’ houses, through some suburban trees, to the mountain I have promised to climb. The sky is often crystal clear blue. There might be a cloud or two. There might be a crow perched on a limb or a roof. There might be a giant electric transformer floating by, attached to a giant crane. (That actually happened.)
Right now the sun just finished setting. I am literally watching the light disappear from the sky. This view is like a work of art, all silhouettes: the ridge of the Santa Monica Mountains in deep black against the darkening midnight blue. I look harder…a star appears. In the foreground, three black shadows of cypress pine treetops wave back and forth. It has been a very windy day. So windy that I almost skipped getting my car washed, because it is new (did I tell you we got a new car? The first new car in 14 years.) and I didn’t want dust and grit to stick to it after a wash.
In the closer foreground: me.
Who are you? I ask myself that question often. It comes out of the blue, from my subconscious, from myself. Today, I decide I need no definition.
I look back out the window. I can’t see anything but myself, sitting here at my desk, writing.
That’s a good enough answer.