Recently it has been hard for me to write something long and substantial. The moments seem to begin and end in themselves endlessly. There isn’t much of a thread to follow.
As much as it bothers me in one moment, it stops bothering me in the next. It’s like I have Teflon on and things are sliding off so quickly, and I barely have time to grasp what is going on.
Yet the moments I do linger with don’t seem to be worth a story –
The luxuriously cool and soft bedsheet that I got for my daughter. I was doing imaginary snow angels on it, grinning ear to ear; it felt good.
The hubby’s and daughter’s crazy laughter in the next room.
The jiggling and rippling sensations of my butt as I unconsciously swing to a song.
Those empty moments when my fingers rested limply on the keyboard, unable to type another alphabet because output felt unnecessary and the fingers felt completely contented with where they were.
My habitually curious mind asked, “Is there more to this?”. And the moment had passed, and the question seemed pointless.
There are still tasks and errands that I do every day. But there really is no hurry. Things will be done.
A quietness in the air that I can’t and won’t explain. Because explaining disrupts the quietness.
“Isn’t this what you are looking for all your life?” A silent voice whispered in my head.
Not really, because I don’t know what this is, how can I be looking for it?
Like a stranger that lingers in the background and in fact would likely leave if I want to go closer.
Quiet and simple, life can be.
Quiet and simple, life is.
In fact, there is a blandness to it, like water.
Yet, also like water, it’s life-reinforcing.
Not worth a story.
Yet always fresh, clear, and vital.