The plump pause between heel and toe touching the ground, the wide-angle lens of a sudden seeing, when colors pop and pillbugs roll over mounds of clumped earth like fresh ground coffee–fresh ground coffee, my silky savored sips of french press coffee with a fine crema, a slight oiliness–morning oatmeal on my concrete stoop, the neighborhood man walking his dogs, back and forth, every day. Smallish shaggy dogs, cocker spaniel-ish, one of whom is missing large patches of hair, the skin exposed is elephantine–a thick hide. My maple syrupped oatmeal grainy over my tongue as I watch the parade of one man’s devotion. Oatmeal and coffee in the morning.
These are the spaces, the in-between places, as I learn to stop mimicking a fast-whizzing electron and Be the space between the atoms. Caverns of space. Vastness.
I am cultivating Presence.