Blue Bird Day & Hollow Spaces

Blue bird morning.

The term "blue bird" is often used to describe a clear, sunny day following a day of snow. This morning was blue and bright. The frosty mountains in the horizon were golden with the morning's angle of light. I'm quite the cave-dweller and was taken aback by how bright it was in my work office this morning. My officemate is pretty laid-back and hasn't minded my preference to never turn on the overhead, fluorescent light, regardless of how gloomy or gray the day is. But this morning, it was blue and bright and it made us long to be elsewhere.

It isn't that I don't like light--but I prefer for it to be natural. But I'll admit, even though I cherish a sunny day, my eyes are quite sensitive and the sun can feel quite loud to me. In my home, I prefer mellow, yellow lights from lamps in various, moody corners. When I shower, I turn the hall light on and leave the bathroom lights off and the door open, so I can shower in the darkness.

The work-day passed quickly. There was even a little neighborhood walk thrown in there when I had to attend a training that was just a couple blocks away. After the training, I ambled back to work, my shadow dutifully following me. I actually had a shadow!

After work, nothing spectacular happened and that's just fine. I deposited money in my adventure/disaster account and washed my car. I got my new car in the fall and haven't yet washed it.

I'm looking forward to many adventures in this car. Speaking of adventures, I'm debating where I should go for a road trip this year. Should I drive west to Missouri to see a friend and stop at various places on the way (MO high point, Hocking Hills in Ohio, maybe the IL high point?). Or should I drive south and hike the SC and NC high points and whatever else I might spontaneously find on the way? Decisions...

I went to Barnes & Noble today and spent a gift card on books I (do)n't need. I bought The Sibley Birder's Life List & Field Diary and Verlyn Klinkenborg's More Scenes from the Rural Life. Because I'm a grandpa.

I enjoyed a brief stroll through the neighborhood with Cosmo, my other dog. He's my home-bodied lap-dog with a tail that curls upwards. Every telephone pole, every pile of snow, every corner of a building, is a party to him. That's what I like to think dog-marking spots are. Parties. I may not be able to see the dogs, but Cosmo certainly does with his nose. I like to believe that when he stops, sniffs, and marks, it is his equivalent of attending a party and having a cocktail. I've read that one of the many pet peeves (haha PET peeves) of a dog is when its owner pulls it away from these parties. I try not to pull him away that often, but sometimes he really lingers. I'll try and compromise with him. There are other parties to go to, dude. Don't spill all of your drink in one place, pal. He's very different from Silas. Silas doesn't mark. He doesn't hold reserves of urine for every party. He doesn't even pee like a boy. He squats like a little bitch, always looking over his shoulder at me, making sure that I have his back--that I'm protecting him. Of course I'll protect you, I'll say to him. He parties all at once. He empties his keg and is ready to go.

We took down our Christmas tree today and now Brian and I are in wonder over the extra space in the living room. It made me think about something I recently read--about how humans were the first creatures to develop mobile hollow-spaces. What do I mean? Well, from the beginning, we are created--existing--in a hollow space full of fluids. Then we're born into yet another hollow space--the hospital room or a bath tub or the back seat of a car. Animals, they dwell in whatever hollow space they can find. And in the bear's den there may be another hollow space in which insects make their dwellings (more hollow-spaces). But these dwellings--these hollow spaces--they are immobile. They're shelters. And hollow-spaces, they go beyond just shelters. They hold and contain, as well. A hole in the ground for your begonias, a swimming pool for your entertainment, a cup inside a cupboard inside a kitchen inside a house. But humans, we created the cup. Some animals may cup their hands and dip them into water. But once their hands unclasp, the cup is gone. Humans--we carry the cup and put it down. We get into moving hollow-spaces to get to work on time. We fly in hollow-spaces to explore our world. Because of mobile hollow-spaces, we can not only contain, but cherish. The hollow-space I call my backpack carries my books, my hollow-spaces full of pills, my hollow-space full of change, and an intricate hollow-space that keeps my sister's ashes safe.

And inside us, a hollow chamber inside our heads holds the muscle that defines all of this.