steady

They arrive one by one, two by two with food and bottles of wine in hand.  We talk, we eat, we look at the stars and warm ourselves by the bonfire.  I am a little exhausted the next day (we all are), but a fun evening, for sure.

Two days later, my daughter and I plan a walk after dinner.  It’s raining but we are undeterred.  With dishes done, we get umbrellas, we walk down the front porch steps and onto the walkway.  We don’t even get to the driveway when we decide to abort.  It’s a downpour and windy, and cold.  We wait two more nights, no rain.  We walk, the stars and a few reflective planets pasted onto the night sky above us.  It’s perfect.

I fluctuate between steadiness and fluster.  I’d say it’s more steadiness, but when the fluster begins its flustering, it temporarily overshadows the steady.  I keep reminding myself:  the words, the photographs, the breath.  Engage.  These are my rocks, my anchors, my tools.  Why am I easily distracted?  Why do I doubt?  Steady on, steady on.

Feeling steady, I sit at my desk with pen in hand and let words drip onto page.  In this moment, I don’t know if the steady or the fluster is stronger, I only know that something is at play.  I look out the window to my left and see the light rising over the roof of my neighbors’ house.  The light, the dripping words.  Steady on, steady on.

We talk for a good while, of tea, of dentists and dermatologists, of Covid, eventually landing on the things that keep each of us steady, the things that bring pleasure and also feel a necessity:  the words, the photographs, the creating.  We talk of not needing an endgame, we talk of practice.  This practice thing – this no-endgame thing – is not glamorous but it is the way through and forward.  I lay head to pillow, rise the following day, look out the window to my left, hoping to catch the magical light rising, praying that the words will drip once more.

Steady on, steady on.

The good life is a process, not a state of being.
It is a direction not a destination.
~ Carl Rogers ~

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