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In the Courtyard
Aug. 5th, 2005 05:55 pm
Any water in the desert is a miracle. But the valley this creek occupies isn't dramatic enough to lure the tourists. I don't mind. It makes this place peaceful.
The sun is still behind the low, jumbled rocks of the hills to the east. On the west the rocks mount to a modest cliff. It gives welcome shade in the late afternoon, when we need it most.
My house is old-fashioned. It's not as old as it looks, and it's made of some kind of concrete material the builder came up with on his own, not real adobe. But it looks like adobe, and looks like it's been here forever.
It's two wings at right angles, making up two sides of a square. I think it was supposed to surround this courtyard, this little square of tiles with its shrubs and its small trees, its hummingbird feeders and wind chimes, and the bench beneath the biggest tree (still a small thing, with trailing branches, oriental in form) where I like to sit on cool mornings like this. Instead, the house only goes halfway around the courtyard. The other two sides are marked off by walls, with a wooden gate in the east side, toward the creek.
Perhaps the man who built this place, back in 1951, ran out of money before he finished the square. But I like to think he reached that most precious and most serene level of wisdom; the sure knowledge of just when enough really is enough.
Even in the pale early light the house looks pinkish. Dark wood French doors, with multi-paned glass, open into the courtyard from the living-dining room. The other windows are multi-paned too, tall, not very wide. The blinds in Lynn's room are firmly shut against the day. Let her sleep; she worked late last night.
The sun will be fierce today; there isn't a cloud in the sky. But it was cold last night, and with the sun still below the rocks in the east it's still chilly. Steam rises from my coffee cup in the cool air. I can smell the tang of the smoke from the fire I built in the woodstove last night.
A touch of breeze stirs the trailing branches of the tree beneath which I sit. The wind chimes play a note or two, tentatively. I hear a car driving past slowly on the road out front. Doves peck for seeds near the far wall; they're so tame they're almost pets. I can hear sparrows chirping and bickering in the morning silence, and the heavy rustling hum of the day's first hummingbird at the feeder.
I take a deep breath of the sweet morning air. I exhale again and smile. I am here now, and I can live completely in the moment. I raise the coffee cup, savoring the rich, earthy aroma of fine Sumatran coffee, my favorite. To smell it is almost as good as to taste it.
Then I sigh and put down the coffee cup. It's not Sumatran, it's whatever was on sale at Wal-Mart, and it's flat and sour. My office has posters of wolves and forests, but its view is of the parking lot of a used car dealership that went bankrupt. The sky is gunmetal-colored, full of humidity and pollution. There is no birdsong or sound of water running over stones; just the rush of air from the AC ducts, the chatter of my co-workers, tapping of keyboards, ringing of phones. And I have many reports to write and review today before I am used up and can be allowed to make my way home.
The sun is still behind the low, jumbled rocks of the hills to the east. On the west the rocks mount to a modest cliff. It gives welcome shade in the late afternoon, when we need it most.
My house is old-fashioned. It's not as old as it looks, and it's made of some kind of concrete material the builder came up with on his own, not real adobe. But it looks like adobe, and looks like it's been here forever.
It's two wings at right angles, making up two sides of a square. I think it was supposed to surround this courtyard, this little square of tiles with its shrubs and its small trees, its hummingbird feeders and wind chimes, and the bench beneath the biggest tree (still a small thing, with trailing branches, oriental in form) where I like to sit on cool mornings like this. Instead, the house only goes halfway around the courtyard. The other two sides are marked off by walls, with a wooden gate in the east side, toward the creek.
Perhaps the man who built this place, back in 1951, ran out of money before he finished the square. But I like to think he reached that most precious and most serene level of wisdom; the sure knowledge of just when enough really is enough.
Even in the pale early light the house looks pinkish. Dark wood French doors, with multi-paned glass, open into the courtyard from the living-dining room. The other windows are multi-paned too, tall, not very wide. The blinds in Lynn's room are firmly shut against the day. Let her sleep; she worked late last night.
The sun will be fierce today; there isn't a cloud in the sky. But it was cold last night, and with the sun still below the rocks in the east it's still chilly. Steam rises from my coffee cup in the cool air. I can smell the tang of the smoke from the fire I built in the woodstove last night.
A touch of breeze stirs the trailing branches of the tree beneath which I sit. The wind chimes play a note or two, tentatively. I hear a car driving past slowly on the road out front. Doves peck for seeds near the far wall; they're so tame they're almost pets. I can hear sparrows chirping and bickering in the morning silence, and the heavy rustling hum of the day's first hummingbird at the feeder.
I take a deep breath of the sweet morning air. I exhale again and smile. I am here now, and I can live completely in the moment. I raise the coffee cup, savoring the rich, earthy aroma of fine Sumatran coffee, my favorite. To smell it is almost as good as to taste it.
Then I sigh and put down the coffee cup. It's not Sumatran, it's whatever was on sale at Wal-Mart, and it's flat and sour. My office has posters of wolves and forests, but its view is of the parking lot of a used car dealership that went bankrupt. The sky is gunmetal-colored, full of humidity and pollution. There is no birdsong or sound of water running over stones; just the rush of air from the AC ducts, the chatter of my co-workers, tapping of keyboards, ringing of phones. And I have many reports to write and review today before I am used up and can be allowed to make my way home.
