MAY ALL BEINGS BE AT PEACE

Sunday night.  Cat’s curled up on the chair behind my left shoulder.  I can see the waxing moon through the blind slats of the window nearby.  It’s late May, and Spring, despite its best efforts, is yet to have fully sprung in this semi-desert.  Twenty-eight years ago this coming Saturday I got married on my ex-in-laws’ lush and expansive back lawn, where the afternoon high was 101°.  That evening we danced, crazed and barefoot on the brick patio until the soles of our feet were bruised.

My husband likes to say that our unusually cool spring this year is due to “Al Gore’s giant head blocking out the sun.”  (Nothing personal, Al.  We like you.  We really do.)  But you have to admit, the guy’s got a noggin the size of a small planet, or at least an asteroid. 

I can hear the refrigerator humming in the kitchen, the clock tock-ing in the dining room, an across-the-street neighbor’s basso profundo dog woofing at the stars.  Ahhh, and of course the trains.  “De tlains, de tlains!” (No offense to Hervè Villechaize.) 

I’m tired of playing with my iPhone, of reading about body dysmorphic disorder, of writing progress notes.  I’m tired of these annoying sutures in my gums.  Of being busy.

But I’m grateful to be here tonight in the cat-ravaged overstuffed chair, the selfsame ravager now gracefully bathing herself.  My woolly socks and polarfleece jacket are keeping me warm on this fine spring evening.  I’m grateful for our little house that’s the right size for two smallish people and a cat, and my husband sitting at his computer in the next room, editing photographs.  I’m grateful for right here, right now.  For this postage-stamp-sized island of peace. 

Hoping the same for you, whoever you are. 

G’night.

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About creat1ve11

psychotherapist by trade, writer and artist by temperament, over 50 and not fighting it, love the idea of snorting milk through my nose, but have never actually done it
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