Spirit in the Sky

By Cheryl Oreglia

I love observing how the darkness slips over the evening sky as if a silk gown covering the stark nakedness of the day. It draws me in like fine wine, compelling me to linger over the fragrant images, it has become a ritualistic devotion regardless of the tedious tasks in need of tending. It is something I never tire of watching "the spirit in the sky" as it prepares to rest.

The beauty of the evening sky is as unique as the people it shelters. I've yet to see two exactly the same. Crystal Woods says, "a sunset is the sun's fiery kiss to the night." A sultry take on the relationship between day and night but murder might be more accurate with those glorious crimson ribbons rippling through the "marmalade skies." 

"How strange this fear of death is! We are never frightened at a sunset." George MacDonal

Tonight the sky appears unassuming, unfolding itself with such style and grace, as if a slow dance between lovers. The intensity of the colors might have something to do with the silence that has surrounded me for the last two days. I escaped up to the lake on my own, my husband had plans, and I had a todo list as long as my arm. The silence was the unexpected result, but I'm beginning to appreciate the subtle gifts of quietude, everything speaks so loudly when I finally shut-up. 

It's as if I've been estranged from my thoughts for years, ever since the kids came along, and I sort of lost track of them (my thoughts, not the kids). It seems odd that silence feels so natural after such a short amount of time. Normally I'm besieged by so many distractions I wouldn't notice a thought if it came right up and slapped me in the face. Not that my thought are abusive but you know what I mean. It's as if I created space in my head for inspiration to grow. 

The other complicit circumstance messing with my normal routines is a thirty day cleanse I got roped into. Larry and I radically cut down on bread five months ago in order to rein in his triglycerides, but with his follow-up test coming up in thirty days, I begrudgingly agreed to participate in a thirty day cleanse in hopes of boosting the results. Of course this translates to no happy hour which is ironically correct. 

I grew up in what one might call the "cocktail era," circa 1960's and I carry around this picture in my head of Mom and Dad lounging on the couch, early evening, stemmed glasses in hand, debating the topics of the day. 

It occurs to me now that I don't really know those people, so young, fearless, and full of life. I been caught unaware in the web of their sweet romance, in tribal rituals that held us together like glue, and formed us in ways that continue to give life. 

My parents had an unusual sort of love. I don't say that just because they have both passed away. They were truly madly in love with each other. Each afternoon around 4:45pm Mom would jump up, comb her hair, and apply perfume because Dad would be arriving soon. Corny as it may sound she actually lit up when he walked in the door. 

He knew the drill, leaning in to give Mom a chaste peck on the cheek, he would promptly pour two glasses of wine, and lead her into the family room for their evening rendezvous. We were always welcome to join in the conversation and by the time we were eighteen we were even allowed a small glass of wine. That is definitely when the conversations got more interesting.

"She wished it were evening now, wished for the great relief of the calendar inking itself out, of day done and night coming, of ice cubes knocking about in a glass beneath the whisky spilling in, the fine brown affirmation of need." Michelle Latiolais

As I sit down to the computer the words just seem to flow especially now that I given my thoughts free rein. The quieter I remain the louder my interior voice becomes. This might be the reset button I've been searching for as we enter 2018. Stepping out of the world once in a while, allowing the more subtle elements of life to take center stage, might be wildly beneficial for creative types, especially writers.

So quite unexpectedly I find myself consorting with my wayward thoughts, noticing the unique facets of each passing hour, and avoiding the things that can take the edge off the vibrancy of the day.


What practices help you "reset" or "revive" your creativity? 

I'm Living in the Gap, with no one to talk to, but the dog. For the love of God please come find me. 



Notes to self: A friend of mine recommended a new app called Insight Timer for practicing meditation. It's awesome, if you get a chance check it out, and it's free!