A high, heavy fog kept the sun away today. The air was chilly, and the cats sought out our laps at every opportunity. I curled up in an armchair and watched the wind blow brittle brown leaves in swirling patterns down the street. We heard airplanes, big ones, taking off. International flights have resumed, but not many. It was still quiet for long periods.
I spent time taking comfort in the fat paprika-colored pillows on my ginger-colored sofa. I stretched out, wrapped in an orange and saffron quilt, and admired the arrangement on my mantelpiece: a clay moon and village sculpture I bought in Quito a few years ago, a carved and painted wood frame that no standard photo fits, delicate Japanese paper-wrapped candles, a tin lantern containing a lavender-scented candle, a wooden angel, a ceramic bird from Jalisco given to me by my father, a dark green dish in the shape of a banana leaf purchased while with Denise. I like looking at the combinations of color and shape, and thinking about where they came from.
Feeling a spark of ambition I sorted through the living room bookshelves, rearranging and boxing things up properly, enjoying handling my books. I did household chores, mildly pleased by my efforts at holding back the tides of chaos. I made beef Stroganoff for dinner, and ate cookies while studying logic. I looked out the window while working at the computer and felt a sense of peace accompany the soft autumnal hues of the day.
I don't have a god, so I can't pray for the people who died in New York, and Pennsylvania, and Virginia. But I can appreciate the craftsmanship of a hand-made item, the softness of a cat's fur, the mouthwatering scent of onions and butter and mushrooms frying, the warm solidity of my husband's body when we hug. I will not let terror and useless deaths inhibit my ability to rejoice in the world. I will bear witness to the beauty that still exists.
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