Sit

Today, and maybe this week, is for sitting. For feeling. All the feels. I don’t want to—but to let it all arise.

It’s been a gauntlet, these past few months. Lots of loss, lots of dying. I’ve hospiced it as well as I could manage—and now I am alone. My girl gone Aussie, children with their mother. No business, like the child it was, to attend to now.

It’s over.

And I’m okay.

I go on—but what now?

The sit doesn’t aim to produce anything. It is like chopping wood and carrying water. The achievement is the thing itself.

Even when I sit with eyes open, I’m tempted to plan for the spring garden—for that is what I see: grass rank and overgrown. So I sit with closed eyes and feel the internal quiet and tumult. It’s tremendous to have a bit of land to lie silent upon. To feel her birdcall through my body. To let nature be busy while I remain still.

And still, there is much to write about—my love for Mary, which I’m curious to see how time and distance will affect. And the new bulbs of something that were planted in the dark. The dance space in Ōhau. The locals becoming friends. My birthday—the third one here—with pizza, fun, and friends.

The sit is not so uneventful—and I’m sure, as I take a walk through the woods later, there will be secrets to tell.