I’m sitting in my comfy meditation chair after a long period of quiet. Right in front of me is my big bed, with its bedspread of splashy colours. Beyond is a large window looking out on the backyard, with its recently planted deciduous tree – about 12 feet tall. Then the land slopes down to a farmer’s field. Maybe 400 metres away is a creek with a series of trees standing guard, their branches bare. After that is a field which climbs toward the horizon, with Harrietsville Drive flowing left to right way back there near the end of the world.
And I reflect.
Before I started meditating, I took off my clothes and put on my red housecoat. Those clothes are piled on the bed, helter skelter. I look at the pile and realize that they’re my clothes, a symbol of Bruce now divorced from the body. But I see me there. I think of all the garments I’ve worn in my life, and I smile. It’s nice to have remembrances of me. They help me love myself in the moment. Sometimes I need reminders that I’m a good person.
Outside of the window but unseen from my current angle are two bird feeders. A flash of wing often crosses my field of vision and some birdies take turns clinging to the branches of the tree. Then again, the tree is often birdless … such as right now. I want my friends to show up, so I can enjoy them. I sense that a few of them are at the feeders, just beyond my sight, but somehow that’s not good enough. I want them to be with me.
Way out there on Harrietsville Drive, a car is roaming left to right. “Hello, traveller. I hope you’re happy. Thanks for coming by.” Too soon, the car disappears behind my bedroom wall. I long for another to take its place. A right-to-lefter would be just as fine.
Right now, there’s no vehicle on the horizon. I feel an odd pain about that. But I look at the trees by the creek and see that their branches are waving at me. “Hello, dear trees.” Unlike the birds and the cars, they’re not going anywhere. Come the spring, however, their leaves will disguise the waving.
So at times there is no waving, no birdies and no humans in their cozy cars. And that’s okay. Part of the rhythm of things. And I know they’ll be back.