It’s not my life has been any more or less difficult. There are no new crises pressing down on me. The old ones still wrap around me, their weight about the same as a heavy sweater, one that you sometimes forget that you’re wearing, and one that you sometimes wrap yourself up in, hiding your hands in the sleeves and your head in the collar. Sometimes I panic at the sight of its heavy, tattered cloth, my heart grows cold as I notice the bits of frayed thread and my world feels terrifying. These are the times I grow quiet, the times I pull inside myself and sit.
Outside it’s somewhat grey, cold and damp, sweater weather. This morning I slept late and moved slowly. My dog has gone from running outside to sleeping by the fire. There are birds in the feeders, cardinals, chickadees and a squirrel dashing from tree, to tree. For hours I’ve said nothing except the to the dog, and written very little.
Sometimes I think I could be silent forever, pulled inside myself, wrapped in my sweater.
I didn’t plan to do nothing today, there are many important and pressing things that I should be doing, but the stillness and silence had a greater pull so I leaned into them.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will do important things.