“I notice is a practice of embodiment. To be present in the body, the space, the is-ness. ”
I notice the late afternoon sun coming in through the window. I notice the shadow of the fence on the screen. I notice the fence lattice leaves diamond shadows.
I notice the rug under my feet is green and beige like lichen on stone, lichen of the fall- a fading lichen, not a springing forth lichen.
I notice I’m feeling older these days: why do I have so many medical tests to see if I’m too one thing or not enough of another? My ecosystem is expected to fail at this point or at least to need some kind of mediation.
I wonder if there is a place on earth which is my sister ecosystem- what place feels vibrantly alive with some wear and tear? A gravel pit seems too barren; an oasis in a desert doesn’t fit either. A mountainscape might work. Mountain and erosion: stillness and perseverance.
But, maybe, it’s a meadow- a mountain meadow- and it’s been suffering from cycles of drought and clouds not carrying all I’ve needed and now I’m suffering a bit from having survived with less.
I’ll need deeper roots, a tap root, perhaps, to find my way into ground water and perhaps bigger leaves to capture more sun energy- more photosynthesis. And, perhaps, I already have all that I need and the tests are there to affirm: I have all I need.
I notice the sound of small-kid voices. The negotiation of sharing space and time. My ecosystem is full of so much.
I notice a pulse in the bottom of my left foot. A call from underneath.
I am here. I am here.
I notice the call rises up through my foot and to my belly and my chest begins to expand.
What a beautiful meadow life is.
No wonder we want to analyze it, notice it, protect it.
Life is precious and wild, resilient and unraveling, all at the same time.
I wonder at it all.
Wonder and Wander