Walking is being physically upon the earth, writing is being physically in your breath, in the air in your room, in the atmosphere when you step outside, in the universe once you look into the stars.
The week-long helmet of bitter clouds broke today and the shattered pieces began to scatter as the sun was setting. More huge spans of geese are heading south ahead of the brutish winds. They know what arctic air means.
I made it to my spot and went through my simple forms, nothing extensive for sure, but I abbreviated them considerably tonight, considering my walk back against those winds.
Returning home, I had forgotten two things – that I had yet to shuffle all the stuff around in the garage so I could get both cars inside before the oncoming storm – and that a three-day old moon was up there somewhere behind those clouds in that three-degree sky.
After shuffling the last shuffle and stacking the last stack, I headed back up the driveway to get Mary’s car, and there she was – the night sky’s own personal silver icicle ringed with the faintest clouds of the deepest pink.
The clouds had opened up. There was a perfect view from the front porch. I sat in brother Paul’s patio chair in awe of this thin-lipped moon and her crown of sunlit ice. I sat in awe of this wide porch, this solid one hundred year-old house, my amazing partner, this incredible life I’ve been blessed with, this beautiful universe that I am dissolving into.
The clouds pass over and move on.