Sunday, November 6, 2005


This evening I have my doors open to invite in the late afternoon sun. There is a woman across the street sitting on her front steps with her guitar singing Indigo Girls songs. My mischeivous kitten is taking a rest from his usual antics and is sprawled in the sunbeam streaming in from my window. There's a coolness on the breeze that is blowing through my living room and a deep, restful peace settling in my chest. Not exactly a heaviness, but a weightiness, as if something more substantial than me has decided to take up space inside me for while. I am struck by the love and contentment that I feel towards my quiet, little life.

I don't know why stillness is rare for me and hard to achieve. It seems that it has always been this way. Perhaps it's the drama-queen in me, the thirst for adventure, the quest for that which is beyond ordinary. But it's in these rare moments of quiet peace that my eyes are open to the beauty and excitement that are all around me every day, that I don't have to search for. There is something quite extraordinary about living a simple, ordinary life fully. Why is it so hard for me to rest in that most of the time?

Clearly I am a person of some extremes. I feel deeply, I love to the depths of my being, and when I hurt I sometimes feel like I'll never feel better again. I tend to gravitate towards ecstasy or despair. No middle ground. What's the point in doing things half-way? But tonight, this stillness, this peace feels so much more powerful than any other emotion could. I feel myself curling into it for a long snuggle and folding it around me like a blanket. Perhaps I can stay here for a while, rest here, and be satisfied.

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