Sounds in the night

celebrating the journey and arriving a bit early

Photo courtesy of Pixabay

What am I doing here? It’s only Thursday.

Or in your words,

What are you doing here? It’s only Thursday.

Good question for any of us asking. My boy is arriving home tonight for a visit. I’ll be putting my computer aside to enjoy time with my son.

Luckily for me, this post made its way to me early Monday morning.

The sun greeted me momentarily Monday morning as I sat in my favorite chair. If I was Substack’s Alex Dobrenko, I’d draw a circle around it with an arrow and a dialogue about it. I’m a fan.

It’s Monday morning at 5:00 a.m., the sky is already lit, and I’m wide awake. It’s been an eventful night. At about 3:00, I woke up to Rick asking me, “Is there someone here?” 

I think, he must be talking in his sleep. But he’s not. Next, he says, “Do you hear that?” 

I listen closely, and yes, I do hear faint voices. I scan my memory of last evening, no friends visiting. My son Jordan doesn’t arrive until this Thursday.

Nope, we should not be hearing voices.

I realize the television is on in our living room, even though I distinctly remember Rick turning it off before we headed to bed. Guessing one of the cats, likely Bean, stepped on the remote while we were sleeping. 

After turning off the television, Rick returns to bed, and we settle in, hoping to get a bit more sleep before the alarm goes off. Wondering how the tv could have been turned on, thoughts of paranormal activity crowd my sleepy brain, and I remember a few documentaries that about now I wish I hadn’t seen. Awww, it was for sure the cat. No one has died in this house.

Just as I hear Rick’s breathing change ever so slightly with the sounds of slumber returning, Sis, our second cat, moves in close on my right. I realize she is about to throw up (poor kitty). I nudge her gently off the bed and she throws up on my favorite red sandals, but I have avoided having to change the sheets in the wee hours of this morning.

Rick is once again awake. And that’s it for any hope of further sleep.

Soon thereafter, Rick heads off to get ready for work. I gather the covers around me, hoping I’ll be able to doze off, but my brain is going a mile a minute. I outline ideas for a second book, followed by chronicling the activities that will fill my Monday. When all hope for more sleep is gone, I put my glasses on and pick up my phone. 

In the first ten minutes, I glance at three Substack posts and find multiple subjects and writers I simply must explore. First…

The Stuff We're Made Of

Kat at Gartur Stitch Farm from Life in the Making helps me understand that the DNA testing I did a few years ago indicating my Scottish descent must be true. I read about their recent work on the farm and wish I lived nearby. I am comforted by her descriptions and nourished by the photos. I literally want to attend every class they are offering. I need to visit those goats.

This is one of two photos of goats I have had on on my dream board for months. I get the Anais Nin quote, but two images of goats?

Next, I open Terry Freedman’s Eclecticism.

Start the week #28

I am delighted by his sharing of a Vivaldi concerto. I chuckle at his comments about the highlights of being a cat lover, especially after the events of last night. In his “A great story” section, I discover two Substack sites I am interested in. The first is Yoga and Writing by Dr. Kathleen Waller. The second is Out Over My Skis by Tom Pendergast. 

I move from bed to my favorite chair with a cup of coffee (sorry Terry and Rebecca, it should be tea, mea culpa) Vivaldi now playing on our Sonos speakers, the sun already peaking in my front door (photo above) and it’s only 6:40 a.m. 

Bean has been forgiven for her late night antics turning on the TV and now lies in her favorite spot overseeing my writing.

I hear George Clooney’s voice as Captain Billy Tyne in “The Perfect Storm.”

The fog’s just lifting. Throw off your bow line; throw off your stern. You head out to South channel, past Rocky Neck, Ten Pound Island. Past Niles Pond where I skated as a kid. Blow your air-horn and throw a wave to the lighthouse keeper’s kid on Thatcher Island. Then the birds show up: black backs, herring gulls, big dumb ducks. The sun hits ya – head North. Open up to 12 – steamin’ now. The guys are busy; you’re in charge. Ya know what? You’re a goddamn swordboat captain. Is there any thing better in the world?

I respond to George, aka Billy Tyne,

YES! I think I understand.

I’m a Substack writer receiving new readers like waves arriving one after another on my shore.

I’m connecting with and being inspired by the many talented writers on the platform.

And I’m beginning to feel just a tiny bit like a goddamn swordboat captain.

Cheers, my man!

And cheers to the writers I’ve connected with and the ones yet to come. We are incredibly fortunate to be writing in this time and place, and trust me, AI has nothing on us. See that cute cat in the photo above, picture this little guy instead. No thanks.

Photo courtesy of Pixabay

And most importantly, cheers to my readers for returning again and again to give credence to my writing. I appreciate you.