Scribbler's Cafe

Sactuary at the Spar Cafe

On the eve of a big disembarkment, an extended journey overseas, I claim a little space of solitude to calm my spirit. A table for one, near the window and away from the families and lovers. I will sit here until my soup grows cold - soup I ordered only to reserve my welcome at the cafe. Then I will leave. For one blessed hour, I will turn the pages of my new novel and scrawl in my notebook when I feel so moved. I have no pressure to be productive. I can read the same page twice if I like, then turn my head to stare out the window into the spaces of air blowing between the passing people.

I have stepped outside my life for the length of a leisurely dinner and have found my reprieve. I feel apart, separate and therefore unaccountable and calm. Pasternak - whose novel I am slowly devouring - would counter my thoughts to say that my freedom from care comes from my innate sense of interconnectedness with all the human lives around me. Possibly he is right. The life of the woman on the street may flow into that of the man at the counter, which may flow in to mine. But for now, all I care is that my coffee cup is almost empty and my soup is no longer steaming. I have no concerns beyond that.

posted by Scribbler @ Friday, August 20, 2004