June 17, 2016.
Right now. 9:29am.
A racket of birds. Coffee, no longer hot. My second cup. In a blue mug a member of many of my groups sent me last winter. I treasure these gifts.
Right now. 9:30am.
Crows. Cut-off jean shorts. Frayed edges. A soft sleep shirt that says FIVE MORE MINUTES. A breath in, breath pushing against my chest. The slightest touching of teeth.
Right now. 9:31am.
Cars going by. Thoughts going by. Thoughts of birds and breath. Are there these kinds of songbirds in Southern California? Thoughts of family. Thoughts of who is family. Thoughts that are not right now.
Right now. 9:32am.
The breeze cool against my bare legs. Sit up a little more. Round shoulders back. Typing on my phone on our little side porch.
Right now. 9:33am.
Kids’ last day of school. Now I no longer call them my “girlies.”
Right now. 9:34am.
There is enough right now to fill volumes. And yet how much of it is really right now? I fool myself with all the thoughts of now that aren’t roses.
Right now. 9:35am.
What time did I begin? It doesn’t matter. Here I am. Dried out, split and cracked wooden steps. I am not in a position to replace them. Not right now.
Right now. 9:36am.
The gift of slowing. Fist opens. Heart peeks out.
Right now. 9:37am.
Will it be enough? The Hamilton soundtrack carried us through the past few months. Would it be enough? Why do you write like you’re running out of time?
Right now. 9:38am.
I’m running out of time. How can we live with a pairing of presence and urgency? I don’t ask how. I love.
Right now. 9:39am.
Gratitude settles across the back of my neck. Tickles up shoulder blades to back of throat. It becomes a voice that is a song. I open my mouth and exhale.
Where are you right now — and what if you took 10 minutes, to find out?