High hopes and spirituality
Hopes are high. And I feel well.
We had to play, this morning, for the arrival of a new priest and the Corpus Domini: a long march in the sun, up to the church, song after song. Then we split and went back to our cars.
Before starting, though, a long time spent chatting casually: Chorus friend and I talked for a while about the “problem”, and I noticed that when the girl, should I say my ex-friend, I don’t know yet, anyway, I noticed that she arrived and not looked at me, and sat talking with shop-a-holic friend, and so I don’t know what to think. Not that I cared, honestly: my only concern was whether she would try to meet, talk, touch Guy again, and what she actually thinks about it. Lots of stories she told me, I know, have never been true, not a single word, yet I’ve always accepted them, but her behaviour was unacceptable and unforgivable: I told Chorus friend that I don’t know what to think, and I thought of the paradox, that if every time I proclaim to have a feeling for somebody she goes after him, what would happen next time, say that I tell her that I am falling for a girl, would she go for that and try to…? Ridiculous. Anyway.
On the way back from the church, Guy came next to me with his playing partner and told me something about his job, so we started to talk: playing partner was left behind, when I turned they were all quite far from us, and we were chatting casually of this and that, and I was happy. So so happy.
When we arrived at the band playing partner parked and invited us for (a very late) breakfast, so we all went to a coffee shop; by “we” I mean my baby friend and her artist cousin, Chorus friend, playing partner and Guy. We spent a whole, a whole, a whole hour talking and laughing, drinking coffee and fruit juice: my mind went back to a few years ago when it was normal for us to do these things, back to when we were friends, and we used to go for coffee while waiting for the mass to be over and go back to play. In winter the waiters of any coffee shop would bring cups of hot chocolate and cappuccino, trays loaded with brioches, jars of milk, fruit juices, pots of tea, and there we were, all around the tables, our instruments on the floor or on separate tables, and us there, chatting, laughing, warming up by small sips and long laughters. It still happens now, although we are not the same people, somehow. But it’s good.
Back at the table with them, I felt so happy: the morning was hot and sunny, there were people on the streets and the sweet smell of cooking, midday approaching, and cold drinks on our table.
I was happy, simply happy, because he had come next to me, he had looked for me, to talk, just talk, about his job, about his plans for the summer, about the plants he grows at home (gardening man!) and we had joked, we had laughed.
I still dream of holding his hand, while we are walking side by side.
A couple of my friends, who have been informed of this “thing” going on, are surprised and happy for me, say that we would be a good couple, and they’ve never said anything like this before. Future-teacher friend told me how happy I look now, how full of hopes and energy, how strong I look again; they all encourage me to continue, pursue this crazy idea of being with Guy, and although fear paralyses me at times – I can’t look at him, afraid he would see too much –, I also believe that these positive signs he is sending are good news for me: suddenly we are more than two playing friends, suddenly he comes to say hello and talk, suddenly he looks for me and texts me, so who knows, maybe soon we will be more than just friends.
I am not being carried away completely, ok? I am just idling daydreaming about him. It’s Sunday, allow me!
Other things I am thinking of: how I hope that the woman from the language institute emails me and tells me when the interview is (no news yet); how I am determined to go to England all the same, and I am looking for alternative courses to attend in case that interview doesn’t end well; how I am positive, anyway, that the interview will be ok and I will leave in a couple of weeks; how much I will enjoy spending these two weeks moving the books downstairs and putting them tidily on the shelves, before going to some lesson, before going to the gym, before studying my bassoon; talking of which, I am also thinking how much I like playing it, no matter how hard it is – small hands mean more trouble, but hey – and how well I can already play it, even though it will require a lot more practice than with my sax, if only because I have to read on a different key (and how difficult is it, people, when you’ve spent 13 years of your life reading in G? The answer: A LOT). Also, how lovely it will be to spend some more time with Guy, next Friday, just chatting and maybe planning a walk somewhere.
Finally, I am thinking of moving and finding a place to live by myself, and this means that these two weeks must also be dedicated to the preparation of covering letters to schools in the hope that some of them will want to hire me, and I will have the funds to move and live a “healthier” life.
I’d better go and play my bassoon, now: I’ve been taught more positions for the complete scale (not all of it but most) and I need to revise right away or I’ll lose them!
One more thing: one thing my shrink made me think of is spirituality: I seem to have lost my spiritual me. Not that I’ve ever had one, I think. When I was at high school I was into New Age thinking, but never completely: the side of meditation, and a few other things were somehow refused by my squared mind; like the side of my mental me, which I found during the Transformation Game, the side of telepathy, which somehow I want to believe but I resist to the thought. It makes me feel a fool to believe it, and at the same time I feel something. It’s like religion: I have always envied the strength and passion of the real believers, their utter Faith. Years of religion taught at school, and knowing the mass by heart haven’t given me much, to be true: I should say that God is not speaking to me, than, or that my heart is not listening to Him, somebody could say. Or maybe this is not the God I need. This is complicated, I should stop here.
Anyway, I think it’s time to take some time to investigate on my spiritual me, and with more intensity than I used to: step by step, and writing is the first giant step I usually take when I begin an investigation inside my soul. I’m not really going back to New Age or stuff like that, but…I’ll work on it. I want to take my time for that too.
We had to play, this morning, for the arrival of a new priest and the Corpus Domini: a long march in the sun, up to the church, song after song. Then we split and went back to our cars.
Before starting, though, a long time spent chatting casually: Chorus friend and I talked for a while about the “problem”, and I noticed that when the girl, should I say my ex-friend, I don’t know yet, anyway, I noticed that she arrived and not looked at me, and sat talking with shop-a-holic friend, and so I don’t know what to think. Not that I cared, honestly: my only concern was whether she would try to meet, talk, touch Guy again, and what she actually thinks about it. Lots of stories she told me, I know, have never been true, not a single word, yet I’ve always accepted them, but her behaviour was unacceptable and unforgivable: I told Chorus friend that I don’t know what to think, and I thought of the paradox, that if every time I proclaim to have a feeling for somebody she goes after him, what would happen next time, say that I tell her that I am falling for a girl, would she go for that and try to…? Ridiculous. Anyway.
On the way back from the church, Guy came next to me with his playing partner and told me something about his job, so we started to talk: playing partner was left behind, when I turned they were all quite far from us, and we were chatting casually of this and that, and I was happy. So so happy.
When we arrived at the band playing partner parked and invited us for (a very late) breakfast, so we all went to a coffee shop; by “we” I mean my baby friend and her artist cousin, Chorus friend, playing partner and Guy. We spent a whole, a whole, a whole hour talking and laughing, drinking coffee and fruit juice: my mind went back to a few years ago when it was normal for us to do these things, back to when we were friends, and we used to go for coffee while waiting for the mass to be over and go back to play. In winter the waiters of any coffee shop would bring cups of hot chocolate and cappuccino, trays loaded with brioches, jars of milk, fruit juices, pots of tea, and there we were, all around the tables, our instruments on the floor or on separate tables, and us there, chatting, laughing, warming up by small sips and long laughters. It still happens now, although we are not the same people, somehow. But it’s good.
Back at the table with them, I felt so happy: the morning was hot and sunny, there were people on the streets and the sweet smell of cooking, midday approaching, and cold drinks on our table.
I was happy, simply happy, because he had come next to me, he had looked for me, to talk, just talk, about his job, about his plans for the summer, about the plants he grows at home (gardening man!) and we had joked, we had laughed.
I still dream of holding his hand, while we are walking side by side.
A couple of my friends, who have been informed of this “thing” going on, are surprised and happy for me, say that we would be a good couple, and they’ve never said anything like this before. Future-teacher friend told me how happy I look now, how full of hopes and energy, how strong I look again; they all encourage me to continue, pursue this crazy idea of being with Guy, and although fear paralyses me at times – I can’t look at him, afraid he would see too much –, I also believe that these positive signs he is sending are good news for me: suddenly we are more than two playing friends, suddenly he comes to say hello and talk, suddenly he looks for me and texts me, so who knows, maybe soon we will be more than just friends.
I am not being carried away completely, ok? I am just idling daydreaming about him. It’s Sunday, allow me!
Other things I am thinking of: how I hope that the woman from the language institute emails me and tells me when the interview is (no news yet); how I am determined to go to England all the same, and I am looking for alternative courses to attend in case that interview doesn’t end well; how I am positive, anyway, that the interview will be ok and I will leave in a couple of weeks; how much I will enjoy spending these two weeks moving the books downstairs and putting them tidily on the shelves, before going to some lesson, before going to the gym, before studying my bassoon; talking of which, I am also thinking how much I like playing it, no matter how hard it is – small hands mean more trouble, but hey – and how well I can already play it, even though it will require a lot more practice than with my sax, if only because I have to read on a different key (and how difficult is it, people, when you’ve spent 13 years of your life reading in G? The answer: A LOT). Also, how lovely it will be to spend some more time with Guy, next Friday, just chatting and maybe planning a walk somewhere.
Finally, I am thinking of moving and finding a place to live by myself, and this means that these two weeks must also be dedicated to the preparation of covering letters to schools in the hope that some of them will want to hire me, and I will have the funds to move and live a “healthier” life.
I’d better go and play my bassoon, now: I’ve been taught more positions for the complete scale (not all of it but most) and I need to revise right away or I’ll lose them!
One more thing: one thing my shrink made me think of is spirituality: I seem to have lost my spiritual me. Not that I’ve ever had one, I think. When I was at high school I was into New Age thinking, but never completely: the side of meditation, and a few other things were somehow refused by my squared mind; like the side of my mental me, which I found during the Transformation Game, the side of telepathy, which somehow I want to believe but I resist to the thought. It makes me feel a fool to believe it, and at the same time I feel something. It’s like religion: I have always envied the strength and passion of the real believers, their utter Faith. Years of religion taught at school, and knowing the mass by heart haven’t given me much, to be true: I should say that God is not speaking to me, than, or that my heart is not listening to Him, somebody could say. Or maybe this is not the God I need. This is complicated, I should stop here.
Anyway, I think it’s time to take some time to investigate on my spiritual me, and with more intensity than I used to: step by step, and writing is the first giant step I usually take when I begin an investigation inside my soul. I’m not really going back to New Age or stuff like that, but…I’ll work on it. I want to take my time for that too.
Labels: mind and heart, weekend
posted by Peggy @ 10:22 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home