Finally, another evening on the front porch. The berries are picked, and Barn Swallows cut arcs around the sickle moon, slicing pieces from a blueberry pie sky. My chest rises and drops, a deep slow exhalation, the first one in weeks, a breath that holds nothing back, empties the lungs with complete faith in the diaphragm to contract downward and inhale the sunset. The old forest exhales, too. A cool wave of air descends across the meadow and laps against the right side of my face.
Again I breathe. Reclusive thoughts emerge that have hidden in old green canyons incised into my mind by the relentless water of living. In my marathon of busy-ness, this spring I finally hit the wall. Not a full-blown crash and burn, mind you. Just a wall. I have been damned, and not by the gods or uncontrollable circumstance, although these may have played their part. Mostly I am cursed by choice, my own pressing need to do stuff. A lot of stuff. All of the time.
Another deep breath. Probably I could foist some responsibility onto genetics, an inherited brain chemistry that requires constant stimulation, a skinny loping coyote mentality, pressed onward by an incoherent feeling that it’s harder to hit a moving target. But I have enough gray matter remaining to make other choices. So I own my busy-ness.
And now I will own this stillness, this next breath of quiet cooling air, this darkness climbing onto big fir trees on the ridge top, this brightening Moon sliding toward the western ridge, hanging in the ripening sky.