Where I live near the Golden Gate, the fog is never the same: wet, dry, thick, thin, present, not, moving, still.  

Today it is wet; the decks, plants, and soil are wet, and I’m filled with the weight and stillness of this day, a weight that knows gravity as friend.

I am peace and ease. Breath swings easily in and out. I don’t rush, simply carried to what is next to do and be on my Monday morning list.

In this place I notice my voice is slow and deep, a generous unwrapping of vibration in time and space.