June 29th, 2018

writer

The last time

The last time I wrote, it was not yet wintertime. There was the yawn of dark days before me, the somnolescent months rolling into the future. I saw in the days ahead that same routine: 30 minutes in front of the light box, Vitamin  D supplements before breakfast, salmon at least 4 times a week.  

Now it is summer. I think someone must have warned me when I was young, about how quickly we consume time as adults: one meeting and another, the back and forthness of traveling between home and workplace, and how when we talk to each other about making a better life we are eating up its very minutes. Would it have made a difference if I'd known?

Today I am observing a pine. In writing class, we are sent outdoors to describe what we see. Playing hide and seek, only a child, I study the texture of the tree that shelters me. Now I understand the luxury of this, to sit outside of a garden-strewn AirBnb in Petaluma (where I have been working remotely for the morning), everything around me surviving and growing, oblivious. 

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