I breathe in. I breathe out. I am calling to myself, looking for centeredness. It is past 9 p.m. The house is still tonight. Tues on my iPod. Stan Getz. I drink the second half of a glass of Pinot Noir from Chalone Vinyard in foggy Montery, California. The chair creaks under my shifting weight. The cat licks his belly and darkness settles down around te windows.
I think of figs, fresh and ripe, that I haven't eaten since I was eleven, at church, picked from the tree behind it's stuccoed walls. I didn't like them then, though I love them sweet and sticky and dried.
I write with a fat-tipped sharpie, letting go of control. Letting my messy writing spill across the page, trying to unwind after the past two days of inlaws and house hunting. Almost the house we want---but not quite.
I am trying to TRUST THE UNIVERSE. Already it has brought so much. My life is full and I am greatful. I gather up moments of stillness.