For three weeks, I have been searching for this moment.
Kids have come in and out of the house; I cooked dinner, messed up the kitchen, cleaned up about half of it. Kids came back in. And then went back out, or to bed. My husband is not yet home.
And so, I am alone.
I am perched on a bar stool at the island in this beautiful, spacious kitchen. The lights under the counter are glowing and putting off some heat, but the new ceiling fan is spinning, and the french doors are wide open, with the new screen keeping the bugs away. The dishwasher is churning quietly and I am alone.
And finally, after three weeks of mayhem at home, at work, everywhere, it seems, I have some room to breath.
I wanted to to do this, to sit my body in this kitchen and sense the openness, fling my arms wide and feel the empty space. To soak in the quiet. To let my words begin to spin out, to think coherent, uninterrupted thoughts.
I have been so busy doing in these past few weeks, that I haven't had time to be.
This moment is it.
And the tension in my shoulders begins to dissipate, mostly because I am finally aware that it is there, and I am conscious of my own ability to relax, to let go, to submit.
I am soaking in gratitude here, in the quiet. It is fresh and it is good.
|Also fresh and good; vegetables from the Powhatan Farmer's Market. Ridiculously delicious dinner.|