Standing in my cousin’s kitchen this morning, drinking water out of a glass shaped like those they used to use (so I’m told) at soda fountains, I find myself fascinating by how the sunshine is dancing on the blue formica countertop. The light is darting back and forth, moved by the leaves on the trees outside their window, the wind leading those leaves on a joyful, unpredictable, partnerless waltz. I always find it funny that I go to New York (albeit Brooklyn) to have a morning where I wake up around trees and am able to be outside in my pajamas.
The first night I was there, I dreamt that there was a citrus grove growing behind their Brooklyn rowhome. They were friends with the farmer (if there was a farm behind their house, that much would be true as they are very friendly people) and introduced me to him. I desperately wanted to reach out and pluck a lemon from the tree, but I was too shy to ask, and didn’t want to go ahead without permission, in case I picked the wrong one. When I woke from that dream, I wished I had just stretched out my hand and selected a piece of fruit, just to see what would have happened. Looking back, I think that sort of behavior would have been encouraged.
It was a wonderful weekend. We marched for peace (many pictures coming soon) through Soho yesterday, wandered through the Strand and had chinese food for dinner. This morning I spent an hour while the rest of the house slept, flipping through back issues of the Nation and the New York Review of Books. The parking angel smiled on me on 29th Street across from the New York Subud House and then I headed home.