On Sunday afternoon, the rain paid a visit. My cat, her only surviving kitten and I sat and watched her. There is something about the minutes before the rain, when I can hear her footsteps, smell her perfume, see her light — gosh, that light! Silver with a hint of golden. Warm and mellow. Bright and beautiful. No wonder that in paintings and films and photography they say the lighting is everything. Everything looks new, different, lovely. Not so bad, this! How green the leaves in this and that garden. The paint on that house not so dull after all…
A nerve on my right hand has been twitching for some time. I am a bit nervous about nerves. Ever since he had to have a major surgery in his spinal chord. Ever since she suffered excruciating pain in her hand because her nerves got entangled with each other. Ever since my shoulder started aching persistently from sitting in front of a computer for hours every day. So much that I practised and became quite good at wielding the mouse with my left hand. It still ached. Well. Hell.
Couple of days ago, I was waiting for a mail. I am not waiting, I told myself, and then got up in the middle of the night and turned on my computer and signed in to my account to check if it had come. It hadn’t. When I got up in the morning and signed in again, it was there. It was probably being written when I had got up between my sleep and checked for it in vain.
I like emails. Of course not from anyone and everyone. But written messages are fascinating, I think. However, there is this problem with them: one sentence, one word can be read in so many ways that sometimes an email leaves room for doubt. Of course, where there’s room for doubt, there’s also room for hope. But doubts are aggressive, like the kitten that survived. Hopes tend to be timid — at least my hopes, sometimes — like the kitten that didn’t.
A dear friend says that she ends up calling her dear ones exactly when it is important to do so. She calls it prayers. I call it telepathy. And I wonder, when I think of someone particularly strongly, when I cannot help thinking of them, rather, and then end up knocking, is it also telepathy? Who or what has been urging (that is the word) me to write/call/remember? And I always half expect the recipient to reply: fancy your writing now/today/this! Sometimes, the other one, a dear one, writes that: you wrote exactly what I needed exactly when I needed it. Isn’t that wonderful? And I smile and nod and feel good. Sometimes, another one, also dear, doesn’t say anything to clear the mystery. But who knows, maybe the other person has glimpsed a wonderful thing but won’t admit it. I remain suspicious. And/or hopeful.