I love the local coffee shop where I do most of my writing. The tables are mismatched in bright, Formica colors. They are intermixed with cushy chairs and couches. It consists of several adjoining rooms, each painted a different pastel color and covered with art work from local artists; today it is mixed portraits of the same woman. In some of the paintings her head is scrambled Picasso-like into Easter egg colored puzzle pieces.
I sit here and write a story about an angel, in between the necessary diversion of e-mailing friends. The e-mails are necessary to keep me sitting, affixed to my chair here for several hours. Otherwise, my will power would waffle and I'd surely find an excuse to leave.
It occurs to me that my physical surroundings are beyond expressions of the mental. They exist as their own element, and that explains why I want to feel them, experience my world physically. We are here, now, in these bodies feeling, emoting, enjoying chocolate tea, a kiss or the touch of the pen to the page, or the finger to the key board, grounded, solid, as all of this. We do not exist as disembodied beings.
Today I remember to move through my physical environment deliberately, slowly. The images we picture in our mind's eye are physical, and they are real. It's fun to be here, now like this.
(Painting entitled "Two Coyotes Howling at the Moon" by Pat Olchefski-Winston.
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