We all seem bored. It is raining like it would rain on a winters day. Ice speaks in the air and I am sure it is snowing somewhere (it was). There is no sun. Dogs are scattered about the place. The older two, well versed in such days, are sleeping. They seem to have sensed that the early morning walk before the weather set in, was all the activity the day was going to allow. Now they seek warmth and comfort and yes I am one of those people who nestles their dogs in old blankets. Atlee’s eyes, followed by a deep sinking moan, tell me that his old bones appreciate my fancies. Pup doesn’t follow suit and I am sure if he could talk he would utter “I’m bored”, in his best whining voice. Instead he amuses himself, darting from room to room, finding bits of paper that I am sure I have picked up to chew. We all soon tire of him and each other and seek comfort in our own worlds, sleeping, watching telly, reading words. It feels like a Sunday where such weather is allowed, however it is a Monday and a day off work. I feel like we deserve a refund on this day.
As the day creeps along, I revisit an old notebook refreshing my mind with collected quotes from past reads along with jottings of notes. They almost take the shape of a dream. I skim through and words that capture my eye are transcribed to other note books. These are ideas to shape and refine. Perhaps there is a dream there after all. It is enough for the moment. These transcribed words are a suggested play for future days. I close my notebook and whilst I don’t have a tangible creation I can feel the murmurs of something, what I am not sure but I feel a small twinge of excitement at the possibility of it. Maybe that is what boredom is for, the gentle space of nothingness which encourages the mind to look in corners busy days prevents.
I make a tea, it is a day for tea and whilst I hunt out the milk, I glance over the fridge door. It is mess of magnets collected from travels (refined, the bulk are in a box somewhere. Magnet collecting was an obsession for a while), photos of family and the odd postcard. Cherished emphemera, memory moments that I glance at daily. It holds those not immediately near close. I am reminded of conversations with my sister in law and how the fridge is not just the heart of the house for the food it stores but also like ours, the collective memory. My eye returns to the postcard and I think how I have others as bookmarks, holding pages in books. Stories within stories. It reminds me to check out a local printer. I want to make my own to share, to send, to be stuck on someone’s fridge elsewhere or to be hidden in a book. I like the idea of making small art pieces to hold in your hands.
While I am still working on the postcards, I do have a few I printed, just to see what they are like. They are a starting point to something, much like the words revisited from my notebook, an idea not yet fully formed but one I will share when it is ready. In the meantime I have a pile of daffodil cards, ready to send. I thought perhaps to send them out into the world would be nice. A spark of joy much like the image of spring. A little bit of joy in the mail that these days we don’t get a lot of. I post a message on socials “does anyone want some mail?” people respond and cards are sent to various corners of the world. I reconnect with people who in the past we would have chattered and now we just heart a photo or two. I have a few left and if you wish to have a little joy sent your way in the form of a postcard of daffodils then let me, respond to this message “yes please” and I will see what I can do.