Sleepy Time

The wind forces the windows to shudder in their frames. My old apartment creaks and settles. Another swell makes the trees bristle and whine.

It is a cold and blistery first-winter-night in Chicago. I am in my little kitchen nook, sipping Sleepy Time tea in a mug that says "Noel" and has a fat happy snowman on it. I am waiting for my brussel sprouts to steam up nicely so I can dip them in mustard and relish in the flavor explosions that my mouth enjoys so much. The steamer is from a friend who just called and I "rejected" by pressing a button on my cell phone. Not now, later.

Then steamer is perfect and I love it. It is from China Town, I think she got it for under 10 dollars. It is made of bamboo or wicker or something of that caliber, and it steams things to a crisp-soft combination that is hard to get out of a simple pan. I am forever appreciative of her generosity.

I am in front of my computer, as usual, debating whether to watch a rerun on a network website or lose myself for a few hours in a mindless myspace labrynth. Jury is still out so instead I write these words and wait for my tea to cool down.

My wrists are sore from giving pleasure to classmates' backs last night. My soul is calm because of some deep unconscious body work we played with in class today. And I am thankful for the quiet now, after a long hurried day of brain intake. Moments like this are good for me. I need to remember to stop and take them all in and writing helps. I forget that sometimes.

I will drift off to sleep tonight trying to process everything I learned and will probably accomplish that while asleep and wake up remembering nothing. But hopefully it will have sunk deep into my subconscious and will stay there, poised and ready for me to pull out of my holster-brain when I most need it.

There is such beauty in that.