Each year I reverence this day, the last day of the first six months.  I wake and listen – birds, silence, a breath of wind, the metal of the wind chime tapping slowly enough to separate its notes into a wholeness inviting me into my own.  

I’ve purposely left this day open, open to what comes, with space between the metal bars of time, open so the wind can move through, twining, twisting, turning, evening out the breath.  

I feel emergence from a tactile dome in which I’ve been feeling my way and now I come into spaciousness and light.  There is breath, movement in and out, a landscape aware of and including me. I open shutters, let division go.

It’s the 78th day since my brother passed.  I planned to stop keeping track but something draws me back in to the ups and downs and ins and outs and yet this morning all blends gently as one.

What moves in me now as I listen to birds call?   

In reading one book, I come across another: As Consciousness Is Harnessed to Flesh by Susan Sontag.  The title is enough.

I look out on a redwood tree rising to fill my view, consider it as consciousness becoming flesh, needles sprightly in the softness of the breeze, branches rocked by the prancing rush of squirrels.

In this moment, I understand the words of Elias Amidon.  “The love you are made of will breathe you in.”

Two rocks reminding me of how wisdom rests in nesting owls

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