magic

The world is full of magic things,  patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.

-W.B. Yeats

I woke this morning several times before I committed to the day but when I did, I had one over-riding thought.  Outside.  I just want to be outside.

I struggle (kicking and screaming sometimes) with the necessity of responsibility and delayed gratification, and I try to live in the moment, (oh, I try) but sometimes I just can't live comfortably in it, so I manage by living for it -- that other moment when I'm back in my own skin.

Set free, my first impulse is to run.  I've been cooped up for a little long.  But then I have the clear and simple urge to just sit in a field.  A long time ago, when I had a farm to roam -- and very little else to do -- the center of tall grass was one of the magic places. Magic, as in "what if I just chill here and see what happens (what is the difference between patience and laziness?)."  Today:  clouds, breeze, swallows, the faint lace of rain drops -- but not rain, sweet smell of spring grass, distant hum of tractors, pollen, sneezing, ticks...  There is also everything that is laid out plain in front of me.  I am looking at it for about an hour, then everything shifts.  Finally I see it.