The dancing curls of smoke love to gravitate toward my cracked window. This incense came straight from India, and I don’t want to waste it, so the thought of closing my windows passes through my mind. But just as easily I dismiss it; today is a perfect day and my desire is to give the singing birds an audience, the whispering trees an intruder, and the budding blossoms an admirer, is stronger than my desire to trap the small curling smoke rings. The sun is playing games -- unable to decide whether he wants to shine on the growing grass, or to hide behind the fluffy clouds that scatter the deep blue expanse I call sky. I don’t blame him. If I could spend the day as a glowing orb, tucked within the billows of white and grey, I would. But, as he cannot decide, I will learn to appreciate the different shadows and shades cast by the changing light. I will wait in expectancy for the moments of heat that will warm my back, that will sting in my eyes, and remind me of summer, soundtracks, and sandals.
I don’t need the sun’s full attention. The glowing end of my incense is charming enough for me at present... his only playmates are billows of smoke which, for now, prefer my open window. Even the ash drops away -- content to rest on the tray beneath it. But yet he burns, yet he glows. He is content to rest after his long journey from India, content to burn his life away playing with smoke rings. He’s a good friend.
DuruflĂ©’s Requiem is crescendoing through my room. It’s reached my favorite part... The climax of the Sanctus. It’s sheer glory, really. DuruflĂ© was a perfectionist. I’m not.
I don’t think so...
I don’t know.
Maybe I am.
When it comes to brushing my teeth I’m not. When it comes to organizing my desk I’m not. Obviously. I sit at it now, watching ash fall from my incense, too close to my French Sociology papers.
I’m not a perfectionist.
Maybe I should be... But I’m not. I’m Sacha. I’m perfect. I’m perfectly Sacha. But a perfectionist, I am not.
The sun pops out and the greening trees become neon. I remember learning about leaves in science class as a child. Photo synthesis, glucose, the roots and how they absorb the water from the ground. Growing. Trees are always growing. Always changing. They grow because of what they absorb.
I do that.
Just like these little neon leaves. I’m deficient in vitamin D, so it’s important for me. But I absorb more than just sun rays. I absorb people. I absorb emotions. I absorb information, facts, dates, words, syntax, sounds, smells, sights and pleasures. My life is a story of absorption! And this absorbing makes me grow!
Grow... I grow. A lot. All the time. Growing, growing, growing... I’m a barefoot triumph of nature. A triumph that so often thinks it’s defeated. But I’m perfect. I’m not a perfectionist. I am perfect. Summer, soundtracks, sandals... Sacha. Perfect.
The same song just played twice on my iTunes. That irritates me, and I’m not sure why. I stretch my arm because it’s sore. The soreness gets worse... I think it’s from kickboxing. I worked it a bit too hard. Oh well... I’ll know better next time.
Nope... a perfectionist I am not.
Many in my family are perfectionists. I think it’s half the definition of being a Kravig. Some how I missed the boat. But I’m okay with that. It’s perfectly okay. It’s perfect. I’m absorbing perfectly, my photosynthesis is tripping right along, and I’m growing. Perfect.
Miserere Mei Deus is pretty much perfect. Boys choirs are pretty much perfect. And a descant puts the cherry on top of cluster chords, resonant basses, and the just noticeable reverb from a church in Oxford. I can’t remember the name of it, but I’ve been there. I wish that I had had a choir to test out the reverb... But instead I circled the edges of the church whistling, testing it for myself.
I have this thing for testing reverb. Whenever I enter a new cathedral or hall, I test it. The best I’ve found so far was in Avignon. 7 seconds. I’m going to take a choir there someday.
My incense is almost gone. Must be time for lunch.
But, "The Blower's Daughter" just popped onto my iTunes. Maybe lunch can wait... for something beautiful. Because that, my friend, would be perfect.