or
when the audio book ended and my mind was my own
Upon passing a contractor’s sign, pushed over by the wind (?) at the edge of a lovely, empty field: “Whoever pushed over this sign cannot stop the inevitable creep of development. Sorry, chipmunks who play in the stone fence, mice who wind their way through the tall grasses, foxes and deer and groundhogs who find their home here. Sorry.”
Upon catching up after many months with a neighbor friend who walks his dog on the same path every morning (It is I who have changed my route and have intentionally thwarted our daily encounters): “I’m sorry that I haven’t been by. I miss having friends. I miss conversations.” (This brought a feeling of profound loneliness in my chest.)
Upon hearing from my neighbor about the herd of deer and litter of fox kits in our shared woods: “I am not quiet enough. There is life all around me. Teeming. Pay attention.”
Upon feeling dulled and knowing that Lent is around the corner: “Should I quit social media this Lent? Should I quit all screen time? TV? Netflix? Should I read instead? What about that same spiritual tome that I picked up, literally, 25 Lents ago- and have never finished. Is this the year?”
Upon seeing my house just down the street, anticipating the six hours of zoom on my calendar, wondering if I can get away with wearing jeans today, imagining a difficult conversation ahead, and wondering if there are enough left over vegetable and tofu summer rolls to bring for lunch: “It will all get done. I can think about my sermon in the shower and work out my video idea in the car. Time is too short and ideas are elastic. “
Upon walking into the dining room past the vase of tulips that gave up the ghost days ago: “You were so pretty. You still are.”
Our selves, our souls and bodies 