We all check our bank account balances as we drive to work or to the strange empty-shelved grocery store to fill up on canned foods and sparse eggs My heart hurts from watching the worry spiral with the bathwater. I listen to music and I begin to understand Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. I soak up the spring sun in my little yard and invite new wants.
What I really want is to go for a hot and dusty hike, then shower put on a soft skirt and drink a cold bubbly beer on a patio where everyone is talking and laughing and there are dogs darting between the crowds and there is music playing.
What is that feeling when you are lonely and afraid of the shadows in the shower and suddenly the house seems too expansive and I am small like Alice in this wonderland and the wine is sweet and red but cheap enough that it doesn’t stain my teeth. My lips are stiff from thinking too much and the house is so quiet I can here the dog dream.
We talk of trust and of letting go to receive and I hear podcasts of illusion and enlightened but the yogis in line at the cafe seem to always be the least mindful.
What are we if not silly sacks of flesh and feelings and we all carry our egos above out heads like that pancake that rolled out of the kitchen and was tricked by the fox into crossing the river on top of his furry brows?
I envy the ones who seem to be affected by slowing down, as if it is a burden. Why is it always a gift to me? I envy the ones who enjoy multitudes of busyness and want to push their passions in far off places and limitless notions. I always believed my perceptions of myself were true and I am forever being humbled by the realities uncovered in this erosion.