The bee working its way petal by petal around a no longer blooming wild flower high in the Rockies. I watched it for an hour, mesmerized by its wings, its diligence, its low, constant hum. Impressed by how it is at once proverbially busy and in sublime meditation.
Lounging in the sticky heat of August next to the swimming pool in which I grew up. Swimming a few lazy laps down the black line, wondering how many times it’s been repainted since my childhood days of morning practices. Drying off, allowing myself to heat up to the point of languid discomfort, then diving back in, headfirst, bathed in the coolness, my eyes opening into the light blue luminous quiet. Resurfacing and floating on my back, gazing at the clouds, the trees. Knowing that within weeks this will all pass.
Lying in bed, in the hammock, on the sofa, on an air mattress in a tent with a headlamp and reading reading reading Anthony Doerr’s beautiful prose from All the Light We Cannot See. Such as: “And when April finally comes, reeking of sawdust and corpses, the canyon walls of snow give way while the ice on the roads remains stubbornly fixed, a luminous, internecine network of invasion: a record of the crucifixion of Russia.” Heart stops. Read again, this time aloud. A rose blooming in my mouth.
Kayaking down the Mississippi with Tobey in the rain. The day growing quieter as we move away from the core of Minneapolis, moving down river mile after mile. Peering into the deep green of the banks, imagining a life lived in the reeds, apart from the city, on borrowed scraps and found objects, dinner from tins of beans and edible plants, nights with the stars and the constant of the river.
This was a summer of quiet and reflection. Trees rustling against my window. Tomatoes growing lazily. Letting slowness seep into my being. This is what I don’t want to forget now as the calendar becomes layered and time literally seems to be queued to a higher frequency. Just this week I can feel Speed scraping its feet nearby, nervously awaiting the race that is the school year. Can I hold a thin cord to these days of ease? Can I live among the reeds?