Contentment is abundant when we meet it halfway, trusting, if only for a moment, that everything is ok, and pausing, if only for long enough to unclench hands, shoulders, knees and toes, jaw, forehead, butt cheeks and belly.
To me, it means:
Adoring myself for reasons both mysterious and obvious.
Stopping by a friend’s house unannounced and being warmly received with a hug, a cup of coffee, a seat in the sun.
Sowing the seeds I’ll reap tomorrow, on a beautiful June afternoon.
Seeing Aviva and Pearl dressed, respectively, for school in a Dracula suit and summer monkey pajamas.
Accepting the intimacy of separation, without needing to understand the paradox.
Not straining to move mountains but letting the mountains move themselves, as they have for all time.
Working, keeping a schedule, watering the plants, and making the bed every morning–except on the days when I don’t.
Opening to the unknown, being right on time, and not longing for change.
Feeling settled with however things are–or unsettled perhaps, but sans the struggle.
Doing one thing at a time with patience and a light touch, no matter how urgent I may think I should feel. (In fact, contentment has generously just offered to foot the bill for “think” and “should” to go on a long cruise together, where they can stuff themselves at one of six all-you-can-eat buffets.)
Coming home and asking myself, “How are you?”
Knowing nothing is ever actually stuck–only my thoughts when they get snagged on the debris of stories that jam up the river.
Remembering there is always room at the Inn.
Being the light that flirts with the trees, some leaves turned upward towards the sun, others facing down, in shadow. Giving thanks once again for the blessing of a summer breeze.
Riding it out, reminding myself that there’s no such thing as the repetition of a wave.
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