It’s dark and quiet and lovely tonight. I am waiting for sleep to catch up with me. It’s late again, but I never mind. I’ve taken two small blue pills to help us meet up in a little while; I’ll spend the interim reading Murakami, listening to my love breathe, listening to the house creak, soaking in gratitude.
This life, this life, this life. Imperfect and instructive, full of wonder and adventure, even when we take ourselves to the quiet places. I am so glad we grew up to be delvers and explorers. I am so glad we grew up to be insatiable and curious, with fidgety artists hands and artisans’ dreams. Even in our domesticity we are growing.
I am learning so much in this fallow sick slow time: so many lessons on pacing, and mindfulness, and patience. An enormous lesson on ahimsa as it applies to the self.
Lessons on ego. Agh. So much tearing down and sweeping up.
Tonight, though: waiting, listening, reading. Tonight I am present while my family sleeps: I lay in bed and listen to the music of our home and fall in love with all of this, breath by breath.
