micromovements

Is it because I’m getting older that the weeks go by quicker and quicker?  When I was twenty-one, a week took seven long days.  At fifty-one, a week passes in seven blinks of an eye.  How is this so?

There are days with sunshine and days with clouds.  Mostly it’s humid, still, but the temperatures have dipped a bit and it’s a relief.  The humidity affects my pace, around the house and on the road, as I scrub the floor and write the essay, as I drive to the store for groceries or to my daughter’s soccer practice — everything (me) a bit hazy, everything (me) kind of thick, everything (me) saturated.  This is not necessarily bad, I do not write those words with negativity in my heart or on my skin.  It is merely observation.

In the afternoon, after hours of wrangling words for someone who isn’t me (this is different than wrangling words for me), I make a matcha latte.  I heat water for the powdered matcha, heat oat milk and a glug of maple syrup, whisk it all together, take it back to my desk.  I write some words for me (this is different than words for someone who isn’t me).  My shoulders ease, I bow my head toward my heart and slowly, gently, barely rock my head side to side. Micromovements.  Sometimes this is all it takes.

I keep waiting for something to happen, some decision to rain down upon me, some revelation to tuck itself inside a nighttime dream, some inner knowing to blossom, waft its heady aroma, stir me to action.  Instead, it’s only seven blinks of an eye.  It’s only humidity.  It’s only my neck stretching downward, my head rocking slowly, gently, barely side to side.

Micromovements. Sometimes this is all it takes.

Your true home is in the here and the now.
~ Thich Nhat Hanh ~

• Write with me during a cozy, Zoom call...Wednesday, September 21...The Quiet Page •

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