precious spoons "Got your hands bound, your head down, your eyes closed, you look so precious now..." 020722 ... Soma I'm warm — wrapped up in layers of cotton, silk, and the comfortable darkness of my room. I can feel the space above me, pressing down like a friendly weight. I've slept on the floor since the divorce. I feel safer here. Even though my eyes deny me any sense, I can feel a cool breeze tickling my face as it peeks out from beneath my sheets. The fan must be on. My ears confirm the gentle hum, somewhere behind the rising and falling murmur of the TV in the room above me. I feel the tiny flexing of the paws, as my cat stirs awake, tucked next to my stomach. He likes to curl up there when I lay on my side. I feel his warmth and the extension of his contentedness. This moment is precious to me. There are so many moments that are precious to me. The way I hear Allen laughs, from his room above mine, when I send him a funny message. The satisfaction of hitting send, hearing the ding of his phone, the pause as I know he's reading it, then the deep genuine mirth that wells from inside him. I love him. The way Mara curls her head up against my chest when I hug her, leaning in and breathing deep, as she worries and chooses to treat each moment like it's the last. She exhales. It sounds like a little satisfied grumble. I laugh, because the noise is exclusively hers. I love her. The gentle way the breeze at the window dances through my sheer curtains, catching my attention. There's dappled light stretched across an empire of green spruce trees, that rise up from beyond the golden waves of grass that fill the land outside my windowsill. Up above, in the bright spotless blue, a hawk circles. I wonder if it's living in the old horse barn, barely visible due to how tall the grass has become. I love this life. I want to run and catch every single moment, every drop. I want to throw my handful of meager time up into the air, and freeze it so I can see every happy moment, ever heartbreak, every pain and pleasure dancing in front of my eyes in a blaze of splendid, infinite improbability. Were I to hold tight to those grains, I would see none of it. But to let go, I can enjoy the view, and know every single excruciating moment of what it is to be preciously, linearly, alive. To be here. To be known. To have lost and hurt and been alone. To have loved and healed and held close. It is precious. 221009 what's it to you? who go blather from