Taking a break from the work at hand, Maria stands from her desk and steps out on the patio. She is surprised to discover the evening has turned cool for the first time since summer arrived months before. Breathing deeply she looks to the sky and sees a hint of pink drifting past the moon which is perfectly cut in half and dangling just above the tree-line. Turning to glance over her shoulder, she finds the sky behind her full of brilliant pink and gold clouds. This calls for more than a five minute break.
Slipping into her favorite, paper-thin flip-flops and grabbing her camera and keys, she heads down the stairs from her third-floor apartment. The lower elevation makes her lose sight of the color-filled horizon, but only for a few moments. A break in the buildings brings her the photograph she seeks.
Continuing around the bend and up the hill, she notices the absence of activity in the neighborhood. “Has school begun already?” she wonders. Slowing her pace, she begins to notice the details of her surroundings. Crickets and cicadas call to each other. The movement of her sandals point her attention to the cracks in the pavement beneath her feet. A single firefly instantly transports her to the wooden porch swing from her childhood where many a summer night was passed gliding under the stars. A hint of lilac in the air confuses her memory. The tree filled with lavender blooms wasn’t at the country home of her teen years. It was beneath her window at the house in the city when she was a younger girl. A blink of her eyes brings them into focus on the blooms before her. She was inhaling the present, not the past. A smile flickers across her face.
Two men in conversation add to the chorus of insect-life. A distant chainsaw fills in a bass line quite nicely.
The moon has a soft halo around it now. The pink has given way to the dark blue of night. She breathes deeply once more, but the flowered scent has faded with the light. Stepping back up the concrete stairs, she nods at the tall, cologned neighbor going the opposite direction. She assumes he is headed to meet a lady friend for a late dinner.
The air is stifling inside her living space. She hesitates to return to the screen that so often steals her fanciful inner self and demands she be responsible. Ignoring its perceived frown cast in her direction, she grabs her journal and a new pen and retreats back to the solitude of her thoughts and the peace of a mid-August night.
This is life—not the list of responsibilities laying on the desk on the other side of the glass. Just this. This moment. This heartbeat. This breath. Clarity fills her mind, lungs and heart. It infuses her memory and refreshes her soul. This is rest. Rest in motion. She smells it, savors it, and gives thanks.
Photo credit: Shandi-lee / Foter / CC BY-NC-ND