My Frabjous Saturday
When I woke up, I'd slept the whole night through, and the sun was just coming around the edge of my shades and the fan was still whirring and I thought I could just spend the whole day there, reading my fun books.
Since the sun was out, I decided to go down to the farmer's market; until noon on Saturday it's this riotously colorful block with about fifty different stands of fruit and flowers and vegetables and nuts and cheese. I've never seen anything like it in America. People wander around there listening to the musicians (my favorite musician is an older black man with streaks of white in his beard; he plays the accordion and leans into the music like it's his last chance to play) and everyone seems so whole. They have children in strollers and couples sort of beaming at each other and then the older ladies who carefully inspect every single tomato carefully before they pick two of the best.
I get my strawberries from one of the stands, and the guy, a local farmer, always compliments me in Spanish; the sort of compliments that make one feel beautiful. Then the next aisle over there's a hippie guy with long dreadlocks and typical tie-dye shirt who sells lemons; he's got this flashing white smile and talks a million miles a minute, but his eyes are always tracking his young daughter, who wears her hair crazy and her dresses askew. I want to take her home with me because I love her sparkly wild spirit.
After finding some bright flowers and strawberries and two cherimoyas (such fascinating alien fruit!) I went and got a blended iced latte and drove up into the mountains. The light rumples bright over the valleys in such a way that driving around the curves you're sometimes blinded. Up the windy steep road called Painted Cave, and I found my thinking spot (flag soon to be attached). I must have sat there for thirty minutes, just watching that light, the way it fell over the mountains, the feeling of infinite space and the reflective blue of the sea. Bikers came toiling up the road and then whirring back down. Cars passed by, and I wondered whether the passengers were going to Painted Cave itself, if they would leave shoeprints in the gritty soil as they peered into the cool darkness of the cave, where petroglyphs of color bluntly arch over the walls.
The afternoon I spent wandering downtown looking for silver rings, sorting over the many tiny stores on State Street and avoiding the tourists and laughing with Amy at the local skater punk teens who try so very hard to be mean and all you see is that without their scuff they're good kids, as confused as any of the rest of us. We went to Sephora and I got some sparkly beautiful eye makeup and basked in the feeling of someone focusing on adding color and touch enough to make me look special. Back at my apartment, Amy and I watched UNC win and I saw all those cheering faces in the stands, painted blue and shouting with all their energy and believing in something, even if was five players on that court. She and I had chocolate fondue and fresh strawberries and talked and talked. There are so few people in life who can make your day so wonderful by doing so very little, so I felt blessed in that too.
And now, I'm going to wash my face and brush my teeth (I promise I'll shower in the morning before the Lord sees me in church) and head to bed and read until I fall asleep.
That, I'd say, is a really wonderful day.
Since the sun was out, I decided to go down to the farmer's market; until noon on Saturday it's this riotously colorful block with about fifty different stands of fruit and flowers and vegetables and nuts and cheese. I've never seen anything like it in America. People wander around there listening to the musicians (my favorite musician is an older black man with streaks of white in his beard; he plays the accordion and leans into the music like it's his last chance to play) and everyone seems so whole. They have children in strollers and couples sort of beaming at each other and then the older ladies who carefully inspect every single tomato carefully before they pick two of the best.
I get my strawberries from one of the stands, and the guy, a local farmer, always compliments me in Spanish; the sort of compliments that make one feel beautiful. Then the next aisle over there's a hippie guy with long dreadlocks and typical tie-dye shirt who sells lemons; he's got this flashing white smile and talks a million miles a minute, but his eyes are always tracking his young daughter, who wears her hair crazy and her dresses askew. I want to take her home with me because I love her sparkly wild spirit.
After finding some bright flowers and strawberries and two cherimoyas (such fascinating alien fruit!) I went and got a blended iced latte and drove up into the mountains. The light rumples bright over the valleys in such a way that driving around the curves you're sometimes blinded. Up the windy steep road called Painted Cave, and I found my thinking spot (flag soon to be attached). I must have sat there for thirty minutes, just watching that light, the way it fell over the mountains, the feeling of infinite space and the reflective blue of the sea. Bikers came toiling up the road and then whirring back down. Cars passed by, and I wondered whether the passengers were going to Painted Cave itself, if they would leave shoeprints in the gritty soil as they peered into the cool darkness of the cave, where petroglyphs of color bluntly arch over the walls.
The afternoon I spent wandering downtown looking for silver rings, sorting over the many tiny stores on State Street and avoiding the tourists and laughing with Amy at the local skater punk teens who try so very hard to be mean and all you see is that without their scuff they're good kids, as confused as any of the rest of us. We went to Sephora and I got some sparkly beautiful eye makeup and basked in the feeling of someone focusing on adding color and touch enough to make me look special. Back at my apartment, Amy and I watched UNC win and I saw all those cheering faces in the stands, painted blue and shouting with all their energy and believing in something, even if was five players on that court. She and I had chocolate fondue and fresh strawberries and talked and talked. There are so few people in life who can make your day so wonderful by doing so very little, so I felt blessed in that too.
And now, I'm going to wash my face and brush my teeth (I promise I'll shower in the morning before the Lord sees me in church) and head to bed and read until I fall asleep.
That, I'd say, is a really wonderful day.