It’s early, and the sun is in my eyes and I think I should move, but I don’t. If the sun is in my eyes, it means it’s not really so early after all. How can it be? I’ve already spent hours reading, praying, and sitting in silence and still I’m hungry for more of the same.
I’m tired. I’m sixty. I don’t know much about anything at all, but that I know for certain.
It’s still this morning. There’s no discernible breeze. It’s going to be hot—record breaking hot they say. I should get moving and go to the garden before it heats up. I should do so many things but I’m going to sit here with the sun in my eyes instead.
I’m going to tap out words that are rambling (I know) but that’s how things go sometimes. No structure, messy, uncomfortable, terrible, and wonderful.
I pray, are you there? And I hear a whisper, not there, but here.
I lean in, get quiet, and let the beautiful and terrible do their work.