Disgruntled

the hill behind the house

I have been setting aside a few minutes each day to retreat to a peaceful place by myself and sit still and silent. It's funny how hard it can be to intentionally do nothing and not think about what I should be doing instead of doing nothing or what I will be doing as soon as I stop doing nothing. At some point this turns into meditation, I guess.I certainly need it.

You look disgruntled all the time, is how my husband put it. But that's my face, my resting face. I'm a native New Yorker, after all, and aren't we born a little pissed off and disenchanted?  Besides, I have my reasons.

But let's stick to the weather. It's hot, with keening winds. Irritable weather.

There above is the hill behind my house, all brown stalks and parched earth, with an occasional cow bone bleaching in the sun.  It's kind of stark and harsh...don't you think? Lends itself to grunting and grumbling.

On the other hand, I must acknowledge the beauty of that sky, with its cerulean blue and its white wisps of clouds, and those two particular friends, a mother and a daughter, who happen to be among the sunniest people I know. They are good medicine, those women. They laugh a lot, and they're frisky and dance-y, and they come bearing baked goods and lavender oil. They were born with sun in their teeth and in their hair, as the Best Coast song goes, and they don't indulge negative thoughts. I was sorry to see them go.

As for me, I have been waking each morning at various stages of the six o'clock hour, getting up and going outside, and it's good.  I like how pure and sweet the light is then, when the day feels like an unopened present and nothing has yet gone awry.