A little time, a little space: Finding the Gravity of Now
Sometimes the world is too loud, the day too noisy, moments too fast.
Time too planned, happiness too posed, hate too present, hope too pleading.
I find that I become numb as a defense to feeling ungrounded. I start to grab, strive, rush, worry. Anxious, expecting, falling back, running forward.
But it’s crazy what a little space can do. A little time, staring out a window, surrounded by coffeeshop tinkering, whispers of life. A little walk, steps on uneven concrete, cold air defining the edges of your lungs on every inhale, exhale.
Feeling grateful for the specificity of that moment. Thankful for the steaming milk so abrupt, espresso so bitter. For the subtle cool of windowsill air, the worn oak chair, the streaming light just grey enough to comfort. For the grace of winter months, the allowance of mood and introspection, the forgiveness of dried roots and imminence of bloom and breakthrough.
To remember that things will always change. And change, though at many times, a foreboding stranger, can be greeted as a welcome friend. Because it means opportunity and more chances for choices, and always hope.
And I remember that the world will always be noisy and life will always be both slow and fast, but I remember, thank you. Thank you, thank you. Thank you, just thank you.
My feet touch ground; my heart achingly full, weighted by the wholeness of now.
