The older we get the more we take comfort in familiarity — steady heartbeat, clear breathing.
We may also see patterns.
A hot summerlike breeze rocks the treehouse, this open yet covered meditation platform in the forest.
The sun disappears behind the hilltop.
No one knows I’m here, this place where I can sit and think whilst lawnmowers burn petrol and chop grass down to size.
The leaves of an elm tickle my head when the wind blows in one direction.
A leafblower sets my left ear roaring.
Saturday in the suburbs.
I have been too selfish lately, puffed up in pride that I survived the latest cycle of self-hatred.
But I gave myself permission to be this way to eliminate future guilt.
I deserve to be myself, let the consequences fall where they may.
Yesterday, a close friend of close friends died suddenly.
I was expecting to meet a few friends last night and discovered when they hadn’t shown up by the time I was leaving the dance studio that they weren’t coming because of their friend’s death.
Thinking forward to the time I might live alone, I took the opportunity to meet and greet strangers as I would/will should I lose my current circle of friends, real and virtual, in the near future.
It was all good.
I missed my friends but have the ability to read a group and choose people with whom I’ll exchange identification information for use in later conversation.
The treehouse is a mess, wood chips and twigs scattered everywhere, presumably by the squirrels nesting in the treehouse “attic.”
Might inspire me to write an evil squirrel short story one day.
I live my life as if no one and everyone is watching so that my decisions can be used however.
Low risk, for the most part.
Riding small waves of the Zeitgeist.
Leaving the treehouse and standing at one rear corner of this wooded acre, I hear a cricket play its wing song.
I look up into the treetops to estimate which trees will die and topple next.
I sneeze because my nose hairs are too long.
And slowly, I draw, pull, retract my oversize ego back into my three-foot radius personal circle, returning to my meditative monk status.
Listening to the forest…
Climbing higher up the hill…
Looking for late shooting star blooms, finding lots of leafcup, instead.
And Polypodia fern…
Woodland birds become comfortable with my presence and start talking to each other again.
This is where one rests one’s feet on a rock to find peace, to realise one is part of the universe, that the deja vu patterns one has recently experienced are more real than imagined.
My dear friend, you are right, nothing is random.
I rise up from my meditative stance and return to myself.
Sixteen days left until the next lifeline begins…