Dad. A Saturday of surprising quiet. I never cease to be amazed how the house stays tidy without the bursting energy of a five year old, nor how I miss the mess. I take this moment to savor the details, to rejuvenate myself by doing very little. I relate to the sprouts in Tchabo's monkey, slowly and tenderly craning towards the light, and moving as the light moves. Taking nourishment from something far larger than myself, without having to understand it.
The way my hands and heart relax with the first spring garden planting. The way I have learned to give myself permission for a nap rather than drink a cup of coffee. The way I just set aside my to-do list to write for a sweet moment. This is my practice of following the light, sometimes clumsy, sometimes comfortable. One clue that something is nourishing is that I feel at home with myself when I do it. That is how I feel in the company of words and letters.