It’s late afternoon and I’m sitting in Jody’s room, watching her sleep. Her breathing is slow and gentle. The overhead lamp is off. It’s a rainy day and soft light is coming through the window. Quiet.
There’s another kind of breathing as well. Yesterday I bought a small humidifier, since the house has been dry and Jody’s had a few nosebleeds. And there it sits on our computer desk, in all its white glory. A fine mist is being propelled upwards, backlit by the outdoors. The mist rises for about two feet and then seems to fall over itself as it drops to the sides. Wisps dance on the edges and then reach down to cover the humidifier and the orchid beside. All done with grace and a very low hum.
Is my life in that mist somewhere? Jet-propelled at first, two bursts of fog out of the device’s top. I’ve been there. All piss and vinegar, pushing to have Bruceness take the world by storm. Much later reaching up, hands afloat, sensing some vastness beyond the physical. But starting to see that a formless nirvana is not for me. I’m not on our planet to graduate from this place to one of eternal peace. So now falling back to earth, letting my coolness land where it may, watering the realm of form where I can.
Just a humidifier, perhaps. A way to stop nosebleeds. But also a tool for breathing easy with you.