The first third of my summer is nearly past. I have seen many things.
I have seen hail horizontally riding the wind, and I have seen lightning arc across the entire sky in a beautiful but frightening chain, electrifying the entire atmosphere. I have seen the charred remains of a section of forest, blackened to the ground, and radiating back at me the heat of the hot summer sun. I’ve watched fire engulf driftwood, and plywood, and split wood and dry wood and wet wood… crackle, crackle, char and spark.
And I’ve watched bunnies scamper across my yard at all hours of the day and night, nibbling on leaves and lawn. I’ve seen the chipmunks share birdseed with the squirrels, and watched as birds beat their wings in the birdbath, their young beside them. I’ve watched water pour from a fountain and cascade over its stone floor, the infinite number of paths it takes and the layers and the intricacy of every single movement it makes.
I’ve felt the lush green blades—like thick, velvety strands of hair—tickle my feet as I walk through the shady parts of the yard, and I’ve felt the silky sand of the beach entrap my toes as waves assault my shins and, satisfied, roll back asea.
I have seen the stunning birth—and rebirth—of life. I have seen green grass poke through the black blanket of ash on the forest floor, a testament to the fact that life goes on under any and all conditions. The world is in bloom around me, and I am but a spectator to its richness, its minute detail all somehow wrapped up into the sheer, encompassing Earth, the one that few ever care to notice, much less enjoy.
Have you ever been completely still, and sworn that you could feel calorie after calorie metabolizing into positive energy?
I have.
