We go to the bike shop to fix Mark’s brakes. The kids don’t wear helmets. I don’t wear a mask. I feel like I’m killing people with my bare face.
The world is quiet. I kind of like it until I remember why. We buy a baker’s dozen from the bagel truck in the parking lot because they seem needy.
I wish I could enjoy this time more. But swirls of happiness don’t last. The heaviness returns, and I start sighing as if I could push it out.
I do meditations in the morning. I tell my son Mark it helps, but he says it doesn’t and I wonder if maybe he’s right.
This morning I could feel that sweet-sad feeling of being me that has always been there, since I was a child, looking out through my eyes.
They say that presence is my soul and that every soul is part of the universal soul.
I know that things change yet something is always the same. Something massive, something bigger than anything, something that includes us all and makes everything possible.
Last night I dreamed of a guide I once had. She disappeared in the darkness, and I kept looking for her.
Maybe I never find her because I am not meant to be afraid. If I stop searching, maybe I will see that this darkness is OK too.
The cat purrs. The coffee brews. The water in my shower will join the sea one day. I look in the mirror and see the scar. It’s fading, but I know that it will never really go away.