Late Start
It is closer to noon than it is to dawn. Yet, here I sit, writing, as though the sun is still to rise and my day yet to begin. But begin it has. I’ve taken my meds, and there are a considerable number these days. I’ve had my tea, my breakfast, and a quick read of a book. I feel good, though. No temperature, again, so it appears my COVID battle is safely won. My body is still expelling the debris, however, and that’s slightly unpleasant.
As I work, I think back to how driven I was to rise and write. It had to be done early or not at all. But I guess back then that my life was more like a mountain stream falling from the higher elevations, rushing downhill, twisting, and turning, always moving at speed. These days, it feels as though I’ve become a river and reached a lowland delta and life is spreading out in front of me, fanning in multiple directions, slow and languid. There’s a reed in the bend. I can watch it sway in the wind. See a dragonfly land on the tip.
And then sometimes, as I sit in the little backwater of my home, there’s no movement at all. I can be satisfied looking out the window at the Mesquite. The lesser goldfinches feeding at the feeder. The cows moving in the pasture beyond. I can pick a weed, plant a flower, feel the cool air on my cheeks, think about the approaching winter, and wonder if more rain will ever come. Slow thoughts. And yes, I know, there’s work to be done, but maybe this is that work that needs doing. Sitting. Reading. Breathing. It feels right said the river to the stream.