I walked across the meadow this afternoon. A wind rippled through the crowns of the towering oak. The scent of cut grass wafted around me. I raised my face to the sweet kiss of sunlight.
My eyes followed the sweeping arc of a hawk’s wide wings. He disappeared in the teardrop branches of the old willow at the eastern edge of the meadow. I lowered myself onto a picnic bench and studied the dance of the breeze across the weeds at the edge of the creek.
The call of a ship coming through the deep channel pulled me from my reverie. I rose and continued toward my house. I climbed the steps and leaned my walking stick against the cedar shingles. I went inside, closing the door against the noise of trucks out on the levee road.
My mother warned me there would be days like this, when my heart yearned for lines yet to be written by defter pens than mine. She sat across from me at lunch one day, in the height of my carefree college days. She did not break the flow of my excited rambling. When I paused, she raised her hand and touched my cheek. Slow down, she cautioned. You’ll burn yourself out.
I stood in my kitchen as the light began to fade outside my window. I pulled the curtains closed and wrapped my arms around my body. I closed my eyes. I drew a slow deep breath. For a brief moment, my spirit rose into the unbroken expanse of blue. My lungs slowly emptied. I turned toward the counter to start my supper as the sun’s last light cast dancing shadows into the room around me.
It’s the sixteenth day of the eighty-ninth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.