It is disgustingly hot out. I don’t want to be outside—but here I am, smoking a cigar because I know it is a one conditioned activity where I am given time alone.
I’m peopled out, not in a negative way, but the way that comes of an introvert who believes, if one is to share and live time with another and they wish your attention and words, they should be given to the full of one’s consideration.
Threshold met, limit near, I excuse myself in small self-sabotage for the preservation of present-mind.
Three football games, back to school shopping, working in the yard, then resting—a busyness when nothing seems to happen but the energy weighs on one still; if that makes sense.
I just need some time alone; and so I smoke, cigar of unknown brand, price, or origin. I am not an aficionado—just one who does so because maybe we all need our vices and of the ones I’ve known and am not bold enough to try—this seems the least damaging to body, spirit, and self.
Writing, I am no longer alone. Two dogs come around the corner; their panting a more immediate and visceral noise than locust drone of backdrop sound.
Usually, I smoke on front porch, in face of the setting sun. Today, I sit in back, taking refuge in its shade.
I planned to read. I thought of writing in the journal, but reality of day and air lends portends of sweating into pages, smearing the ink of written hand and leaving printed pages weakened and waved in absorption of perspire.
I type on a pocket screen.
The dogs eat grass and lick low trumpet-lily vines fresh pruned. I don’t know why.
Taste of the green receiving cluelessness of what else to do, they lie down beside me. Panting quiets as we all shelter in the shade.
From indoors, I hear the thump of sprinting ten year old feet.
I love the sound, and more the source, but there are times we need a break even from what we love: to slow, to still, to decompress so that we might be a better spring and to fully absorb all the energy life gifts onto us through spirit of others.
A hummingbird feeds on a high trumpet lily beyond reach of my ground-based shears.
The cigar is not that good. I don’t think I’ll smoke much more. Its presence on the table is enough to sustain a little longer it’s granted space and time.
Reach-cast of home’s shadow, our kittens emerge from their daytime hide to play and stalk the tall grass, untrimmed, beside our backyard sheds. One looks like it will pounce the other. Second looks alarmed, confused, but when first strikes, it’s countered by anticipating palm-smack to the face.
Decided truce, they smack the tops of tall-stand grass.
Truce is a feint. One kitten distracted, second prepares and pounced again.
They remind me of my kids—loving one another, but still ready to start something if they think they can get away with it and retain an upper hand.
Evidence across species, and knowing our best to teach different—such must be nature and not nurture. And play is different than intentional violence, and maybe such play is necessary for when those who never learn better try to project control and power by such means. Evidence across species—not everyone learns better. It’s best to be prepared, then pray it’s never needed.
Our black lab puts her head on my leg knowing, if patient and persistent, she’ll receive the attention and time she needs.
My break is done (I think). I am a spring, absorbing and returning energy again.
A little time, and a few written words, are enough to relieve and find again relaxing’s need to avert breaking from the bearing.
The kittens are still playing, learning still to battle. It’s important—there’s a white and gray tomcat in the neighborhood, and though I know their mother’s had many litters—many from him—I’ve never seen the kittens; only seen their mother’s grief.
They’ve made it past the infanticide. Loving father, he kept guard over. Though I haven’t seen him for a week.
We have new neighbors, and home that once was good to cats no longer is, and animals don’t know to read and learn as much until it is too late. Too, he liked to wander, as all male cats “searching” and often returns after time away.
I hope he returns, but have my doubts. He’s the only one that came with us from the farm.
The kittens are further playing: high jumping onto a pin oak, then resetting for sprint from shed to try again.
It is fun to watch them play, with energy slowly wind and drive each other crazy. Evidence across species, maybe all siblings are that way—to greater and lesser degrees. But try and separate them, do as you think they want in read of situation, they immediately miss and want the other.
Love doesn’t make sense. It just is.
I hear my wife singing indoors. The sprinting feet have stilled for a time.
I rise. Time to return, to do as lyrics I hear my wife sing through the walls, “Back to life! Back to reality!”