Just a Moment

I lay down on the grass today and let the world come to me rather than going toward it, which felt like the right thing to do in a way I didn't need to explain to myself.

The texture of the grass against the back — something that holds without grasping, which is a quality I find myself appreciating more than I expected to. I rested my head on the bag and let the sky arrive.

Dappled light coming through the leaves of a tree that has been here longer than I have,— moving in the breeze without being moved by it, which is a distinction I noticed and couldn't quite stop noticing. The sky above it: vast and unhurried and knowing in the way that vast things are.

A warm breeze. The body finding somewhere between sensation and sleep, not quite either. The breath slowing on its own, arriving at its own pace without being asked. The letting go of whatever had been held — I'm not sure exactly what, but something released in those minutes that had been present before them.

It was just a moment. One of those that asks to stay and can't, which is perhaps what makes them what they are. The weight of the eyelids, the breath finding itself, the world exactly as it is, without anything being asked of it or added to it.

For a heartbeat — seemingly unchanged from its own beginning.

I stayed still. Unattached from all I know, all I want, all I carry. Just witnessing what was there.

I wish I could say something more about it than that. I'm not sure more is needed.