Ten.Eight Hundred & Twenty-Two
4:15 am. I don’t think I’ll be able to fall back asleep.
I begin to walk up the hill, up to the bench so that I can see the sun rise. The rustling sounds make me nervous; the grass is tall and I think I see animal droppings and I wonder if I should turn back. The wind is stronger up here and is blowing in my air. The third time I hear the whistle in my ear I turn around and head back down.
The gift of being present with another person without the expectation of filling the space with noise. We sit beside each other speaking barely a word, turning our heads to the sounds of birds flapping in and out of the trees.
I want to write but I decide I don’t. I can only think of one sentence to write and for whatever reason it doesn’t feel as though my journal can hold the weight of the words.
So good to be with friends.
Time is moving so slowly and that’s a good thing.
Finally some figs.
The moon looks so close. And the stars, my goodness, the stars.