Even the yogis take a rest on Sundays.
On Saturday I vacuumed corners, wiped baseboards and dusted off my stone collection. Caught up on correspondence and paid some bills. I wrote about worms squirming in compost. I strategized my health plan.
Sunday morning, in the rising light, there’s wind in the leaves of the hibiscus. Birds are singing to pink and grey-blue sky. It is quiet but for the rustling of tree limbs. Jeb still sleeps and I simply sit.
There are plenty of words. An overflowing fountain for a lifetime. For now I am hushed by the sweeping of gusts. I am so small. Resting in the vast emptiness of the wordless.