Burning incense
Scented smoke curling
All the small dramas of the day
dissipating, unfurling.
Leaving only the thought
Did I inhabit this day?
Small anchors set down throughout the expanse of hours. The morning run, that meal, a bunch of grapes, breathing while I swim, lap after lap. The feel of the damp grass, Bodhi’s warm body beside me on the step, her head nuzzling the crook in my arm. Hot concrete beneath my feet, laundry basket digging into my hip, the smell of clean, the snap of material as it is folded. The smells of cooking. Standing in the shower, inhaling soap, cream, the feel of my skin. If we don’t begin to be mindful, our lives are full of empty hours, passing without our presence within them.
