It’s 8:45am and I am, blessedly, still in my pajamas, in my apartment with a cup of coffee within reach.  It is gray outside and the two large spruce trees, of which I can see two-thirds from my second-floor windows, are still.  Only occasionally  with the ends of some high branches nod or a slender branch lean in toward its sister tree as if to communicate.

It seems on a morning like this that it is possible to sit and pause.  And life outside the window also pauses.  No birds fly overhead, no thunder from the garbage trucks in the alley, no dogs barking, no steps on the back stairs.  Just a long moment.  Quiet; a stillness in me as much as outside of me.

But even so, my mind is doing the math: what time do I need to leave the house? What should be done before I leave?  What is on my list to do at work?  What am I forgetting?

I am forgetting how to be still. How to sit and watch the trees which are moving their arms now, and now quieting.  To sit and wait in this time of Waiting is no small challenge. I want to wait, but cannot.  To wait means to receive, to open, to be present to something I cannot see or know just yet. And that is too…frightening?  Or maybe it just requires of me more simple time than I feel I can afford.  As if I could hoard these minutes and seconds and spend them at another more importune  time in something that makes a reassuring noise and weight in my hand.

Not enough time.  Not enough time, I chant to myself as if it were a prayer. When the prayer could be: just enough, just enough time.  Or even, enough. Enough.  Even this brief pause is enough.

There is something moving in me, very like the fine tips of spruce in the air and also like the leaning of their fine trunks in and away again.  In the midst of this pause I feel it moving, that’s all.



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