I am up at 5am. The two day old dishes have been washed. Now, the sink waits for the next load of dirty dishes, a sign of life around here. The familiar sound of Mr. Coffee perks, slow but steady. I drink my first cup of his coffee, savor its smooth, dark taste.
The phone # for yesterday’s vaccine registration sits in my line of sight. My phone registers 21 attempts to get through for an appointment. They are all unsuccessful. The virus numbers are off the charts.
I read a phrase this morning, “the art of observation”. I like it. It rolls around in me a tad differently than “the art of noticing” which is the title of a book I have.
To observe. To notice.
They are different I think. I observe. I spend time, catch the sight of something, spend time taking it in. I notice. I just see “it” and maybe make note. I miss the nuances (I like this word) that observations pull forth.
My friend, the writer and poet, Edward Vidaurre, says “see beyond the ordinary eye.” And I say, listen past the quiet.
Absorb the sights and sounds. The coffee pot is done perking. Now I hear the sound of the refrigerator hum and beneath it, the quiet of a Sunday morning at my writing table in the kitchen.