The Order of the Day

Today I woke from a dream and considered the sly miracle of the exchange. That world for this one. Then I stepped into the shower like a fairytale queen, bathing in her own personal waterfall. I pulled on a cotton tunic — and marveled that it is given to us, not just to eat plants but to wear them too.  I lingered at the window with a cup of chai. I gazed at the horizon and christened a faraway tree. I let the sun kiss my face all over.  

I wrote a few letters, I admired a glossy crow, I swept the floor and pondered an imponderable. When I cooked lunch I sliced vegetables with the reverence of a priest. Carrots, cucumbers, onions, and radishes and — how like us they are! Skin-sheathed packets of flesh, only with more ordered inner lives. Later I weeded the garden like a young god, making virtuous, implacable decisions (until I felt a pang of compunction.) I placed my hand on a sun-warmed rock. I leaned my forehead against the grizzled bark of a tree. And learned again, to breathe.

I tended and tweaked, and took care of. I read, and relished, absorbed and adored and wrestled a little. I noticed somethings but not others. I nibbled on almonds and played with possibilities. I remembered, I forgot, I yawned. I crouched, swiveled and spun. I praised all of my fingers and toes. Then I stood upside down to feel the full weight of the blessings that carry me.

I laughed too many times to count. I teared up twice. I imagined a few things that shook me. Then I danced for a long time, in the living room, to the music in my heart.

At night I turned on a single lamp. I rested my head on a beloved shoulder, and gave darkness permission to fall.