There are days when the best I can do is pluck one heavy leg and then the other from the cocoon-like warmth of my bed covers, to stand slowly from the bed and take one step into the day.
There are days when the lure of a latte is not enough to make me want to leave the comfort of my plush white dressing gown or the solitude of this silent house.
The Spring sun is again painting the picket fence brilliant white and the deep green leaves of the waratah trees a silvery sheen but no matter how much I wish that I wanted to, I don’t want to venture forth into the brightness of this day.
There are days when I wonder how I have managed to roam so far only to come back and land in the same spot, twice. Did I miss an earlier exit sign or am I just a boomerang that always comes back? And I despair that no matter how long I wait for the fog to lift, the longed for path will never appear.
There are days when I just want to hide myself away, when I know the “how are you?” pleasantries of a friend couldn’t bear the truth of what lies behind the veneer. Today the mask is just too heavy to wear. I cradle its forlorn weight in my lap and discover weeping creates space and lightness.
There are days when I am acutely aware of the minutes passing and that I have nothing to show for my day. No words, no income or domesticated output. And I have to remind myself that I am a Being not a Doing.
Some days it’s just enough to be in the world, to inhale then exhale each breath and then take another.
This is just one of those days.
|Being in Burlo, Siena, Italy|