Abbe’s Ruminations September 2024
Desire- the birds and the bees and the language of love.
On my daily walks through the residential areas in Burien, I meet fellow walkers with their dogs, ones who need to get their 10,000 steps in, or the owners of the homes. We chit-chat about their gardens, local events, family, and sometimes our conversations are of more substance. Apparently, I’ve become a known entity with waves and hellos in places beyond their neighborhood.
Although my daughter is moving away from this part of town ( her new home is just a five-minute drive away), I’ve adopted these areas as my own enlarging my footprint to include commercial, residential, parks, beaches –any area that is within a five-mile loop. Home is where your heart is.
Which brings me to a recent, somewhat humorous encounter. During the mornings I usually meet other women. In the later afternoons, the men are out either puttering or walking. This past week I’ve chatted with a nice couple who renovated their home. They gave me a tour having seen me pass by daily pausing to glance at the peek-a-boo view of the ocean. Three men have stopped me to talk: a retired fireman, a renowned musician, an electrician. All different in their backgrounds, all intent on caring for their home. In one of the more substantial conversations, I was warned about being preyed upon by widowed or single retired men.
His warning seemed odd. I pressed on. “What do you mean, everyone I speak with seems nice.” The man’s response was, “Don’t be fooled by good looks, you are too kind to fall for flattery.”
I laughed all the home flattered that someone would find me a potential catch. With the birds and the bees, the flowers and trees, the sun shining, the air was ripe with desire. I knew he was right. The music of the neighborhood triggered the language of love. I listened to the sounds around me, I wondered where my own sense of musicality had gone. I love to dance and move with Latin rhythms, sway with classical or jazz playing in the background. At an early age, I failed at singing. My choir teacher prohibited me from using my voice at concerts. Instead, I lip-synced. I have never played an instrument.
Like writing and art, I figured why not create my own music? It’s never too late to learn. I ordered a keyboard, stand, bench, and pedal. I’m terrified.
Music is sensuous, rhythmic, the universal language of love. Maybe with practice, dedication and sincerity, I’ll be able to play. My heart is full. I’m at home with the birds and bees and a little flattery.
On another note, I hope to have the new cover design for The Underpainting on my return from my next adventure to Bolivia and Columbia.
You can always connect with me from my website at http://www.abberolnick.com I’d love to hear from you.
