As I lay in the crook of his arm with my head on his chest – the place I have always fit so perfectly –
I hear the beating of his heart for the first time in days.
The steady rhythm jolts me into how alive we are and how fleeting we are.
Underneath all of the rushing and worrying and organizing and planning is a constant truth,
a reminder of what is real:
We are right here, right now.
To feel his kind and comforting heartbeat might be the greatest luxury I take for granted.
Our recent texts read:
Mara ok
Crying
Did you pack snacks
K
Leaving
Maiz wants you
All very business.
All very “I have three kids and barely any time to even include punctuation in my texts to you”.
I get caught up in expressing the critical demands of my ego: Do this and be more like this.
But the fact that he exists and his heart beats right here, outside on the couch under the warm November sun, the day after Thanksgiving, is a miracle.
He can always be better.
He can always do more. Yet he is always enough just as he is.
And I am always enough just as I am.
Month: November 2021
Rancho Grande
What I’m really asking when I inquire about staying at a remote farm on Airbnb:
Am I safe to be still?
Am I allowed to relax enough to hear the pigs snore?
Do I deserve to rest?
May I slow my body enough to move like the wind through the trees?
Will I be able to feel the awe and wonder of Saturn through the telescope lens?
May I move at the pace I naturally crave, in sync with the rhythm of nature?
Will I wake with the roosters and sleep with the goats?
Am I enough to just exist in the present moment?
Will my brain relax from her often hyper-vigilant state?
Will I be connected enough to smile at the “coincidental address” in Rose Valley on Rose Valley Road?
What I’m really asking is: May I do all of these things, at will, today, tomorrow, right now, wherever I am?
I wonder if Alex, the Airbnb host, will answer these simple questions for me.
Oh, and what time is check-in?
Altered Latitude 