Every time I go to my sit spot it’s the same thing.
Even after all these years.
I have a moment of panic where I am ABSOLUTELY sure that there is no possible way my busy mind will quiet long enough for me to notice anything.
Or connect to anything, or
even just let me relax.
And I sit all tensed up, eyes furtively darting around,
money, car trouble, Revie’s ear infections, my bad dream last night, my grocery list, how cold I am, how much I have to pee, how tired I am, yadda, yadda, yadda…
and I think “this is dumb, this is futile, I might as well leave and go on with my day…”
but then something happens.
In between breaths, I feel the beat of my own heart,
and it matches the hum of the honeybee near my left shoulder,
and the thumping of the vulture wings against the highest tree branches,
and the soft, chipping calls of the sparrows feeding,
and I finally
And then I relax.
And I smell the citrusy needles of the white pine, and the rainwater scent of the fluctuating pond, and the earthy decay of the Sycamore leaves under my feet. I smell the fresh barn hay of the deer lays, and the dark, decomposing of the roadkill Red Fox, and the sweet minerals of the dark, black forest soil.
And I touch the cold, smooth stone beneath me that makes my seat, and the soft, roughness of the elm bark, different than the scratchy Ash bark, and different still from the scaly Sycamore. I feel the soft feather of the cardinal wing, and the small hard berry of the rose. My fingers read the stories, whisper over the wild Braille, inform my second sight.
I hear the Great Horned Owl call in the distance, and the squirrels digging up black walnuts they buried in the last warm sun of fall. I cup my hands behind my ears and make out the babbling of the faraway creek and the rushing of distant cars. I hear voices laughing far away and snow melting in the grass nearby. And I hear the hum of tiny beetle wings, and the sparrows singing, singing, singing.
I can taste frozen cold air on my tongue, weak sunlight and cool damp, from the water, from the ground, from the sky.
And I see. From the corners of my vision, the deer walk past at the edge of the field, the tiny mouse scurries past my feet,
the sun, near setting, floats in the pink, western sky.
I see my hands, soft, slightly callused, folded in my lap,
and I see my own small shape, as if from above,
sheltered by the trees, and the rocks, and the shrubs, and the pond, and the creek, and the animals, and the soil,
and the sun, and the sky.
And I am slowed, and I am calm, and I am connected,
and I am aware.
And I am in love.
Thank you for listening,