kind of post, more gentle, more personal, less formal. My house is very quiet now, except for two crows (Jack, maybe or the Crow Girls) who have taken up residence on the three-story tree stump which stands sentry between my living room and the road. There’s sometimes a pressing quality to the quiet, sometimes an openness, but I am gradually expanding to fill it, to feel it, to occupy it. I am finding spaces I didn’t know about before, and it feels as though the days and patterns of my living have been laid bare, so I can see all of them.
It is very revealing, and not for the faint of heart.
I wonder if this is normal, unremarkable, just what it is, or if this is the kind of extraordinary thing we have to go out of our ways to create for ourselves on those occasions when the interval of mundanity calls for it but the ebb and flow of life doesn’t present it. I suppose in some odd way I’m lucky, then, to have been presented with what it might be I need.
Sometimes I think there is nothing in this world except blessings, in disguise and out.