Arriving Home

End of day. Work is over.  I am full to the brim and used up at the same time. Walking up the steps to the porch of home, my lungs sigh softly.  The breeze catches in my hair as my eyes lower to look at my keys.  My troubles seem less pressing.  My surroundings are forefront.

The atmosphere holds something.  The air about my body seems to open up – space feels to have expanded, and I with it. Truly, blinders fall from my vision and the world, three dimensional, has a flowing quality to it.  It is still, not the air or the trees, but inside the elements of sky and earth, there is a quiet. A rich, wholesome quiet. There is steadiness of everything, there inside me and in the key and in the breeze.

The mental imaging, my perpetually flitting, emotional rendering of what is before me, has paused.  The compelling ticking of thinking with words has given into a calm spell.

Sounds about me mark my setting – my heels hit the wooden planks, a dog barks down the street – and a beating heart secures me to myself.  The hallowed whole of it all has touched me, this tiny part of that wholeness. It is at once in me and about me – my senses gently absorb it all without detail, eating up the ambiance.  A world has revealed itself – like learning to see through the surface of a mirror into the depth of the reflection.

A wordless presence is holding still, and I am part of it, the presence inside of me.   Breathing is good.  I put the key into the keyhole. I am glad to be home.

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