The Hill

Not....exactly doing it. But I had given up for the time being....Dinner time.

I’m doing it.

I’m actually…doing it.

Whoops — that was a thought.

A realization.

And just like that —

that tiny slip,

that little wobble —

I wasn’t doing it anymore.

Okay, back to the breath...

Inhale — and… exhale…

Inhale — and… exhale…

And for another moment,

I was actually…doing it.

Calm.

Present.

My edges so soft I couldn’t tell where I ended and where the space around me began.

It was just me —

the steady me that lives inside the crazy one.

The crazy one who doesn’t always know her worth.

It was the me I return to.

And then, from upstairs, my name cut through the quiet —

sharp, urgent, pulling me out of myself before I had time to register what was happening.

A sudden rupture in the softness.

A jolt back into the world.

“What do we want for dinner?”

That was it.

That was the 911.

That was the reason Henry needed to yell from upstairs instead of walking down to ask me.

Or instead of deciding for himself.

But just like that, I went on with my day —

and found myself in my happy place.

My creative place.

And believe it or not,

these days that place is my desk.

It hasn’t always been this way, so it surprises me —

how much I love it there.

The way the sunlight lands on the desktop like it’s choosing me.

My journal, filled with incomplete thoughts and half ideas —

little fragments I jot down when they drift through,

never knowing if they’ll matter

the way they did when I scribbled them.

But somehow,

when my fingers hit the keyboard,

they unscramble themselves.

They make sense.

And they come alive.

My calendar sits on the wall to my left, completely full —

but with time routinely carved out for myself.

Actual space.

Actual devotion.

And nothing ever pressing enough that I can’t put it off,

because…

well…

I choose me now.

There’s something about sitting there that feels like slipping into a current.

Not a rush,

not a flood —

just a steady hum.

A flow.

A quiet alignment.

A sense of being with myself that feels natural,

unforced,

and almost ordinary.

And in that ordinary, something stirs —

a baffling pull I’ve not felt before.

A wanting.

The inspiration to express myself.

The desire to share.

To let whatever rises in me find its way out into the world.

I was in that flow —

that soft, baffling pull —

when the phone rang.

It wasn’t a gentle ring.

And it wasn’t polite, either.

It was the kind of ring that knows it’s interrupting,

but slices through anyway.

So I answered it.

Immediately,

I felt the familiar heaviness

of a conversation

that no longer met me where I am.

Perhaps — it never did.

The same old loops.

Problems that have been on repeat for years.

Complaints and judgments about things and people that didn’t really matter

in the scheme of things.

The kind of emotional noise

that used to pull me straight out of myself without hesitation.

Even when I refused to contribute to the conversation, I’d feel the weight of it

for days.

This time,

something in me politely listened,

but another part of me disengaged.

I could hear the words,

respond to the words,

but I felt no connection.

I had checked out.

And when we ended the call,

the disconnect was so much more than the dial tone.

Oddly, without effort,

I slipped back to what I was doing.

In the following days,

life moved the way it always does —

my hot coffee cupped between my hands

in the morning,

sunlight drifting through the windows,

intentional moments to myself

(sometimes interrupted),

errands and chores,

bills to pay,

garlic sizzling on the stove,

the scent drifting through the house

like it was performing opera,

a glass of wine over easy conversation

in the evening,

a quick look at the stars before bed.

Nothing dramatic.

Well, maybe the opera.

It was just the texture of my days —

the quiet mix of mundane and meaningful that makes up every life.

I wasn’t measuring anything or watching myself.

I was just… moving through my days, the way anyone does.

Then one early morning,

(it felt like it might be a sunny one),

I headed toward the trails with Ozzy.

I wasn’t looking for anything.

I wasn’t trying to clear my head.

I wasn’t seeking meaning.

I just wanted a small change from the neighborhood loop —

Ozzy out front,

nose to the ground like the hound dog

that he’s not.

And somehow,

without planning it,

without even noticing the moment —

I chose it.

Or maybe it chose me.

I found myself at the base of that hill.

The same hill I never choose.

The same hill I usually avoid.

The same hill that would feel like too much on most days.

But something in me leaned forward.

Not motivation.

Not discipline.

Not a goal.

Just a quiet, almost curious pull.

The same pull I feel at my desk these days.

And we started to climb.

The ground was uneven —

rocks and roots,

patches of loose dirt —

so I had to pay attention to where I placed my feet.

My thighs warmed quickly,

that familiar burn,

but it wasn’t the kind that makes you stop.

At least not today.

Today, it was the kind that keeps you going.

The light at the top of the hill was enticing,

but I’m not sure if that was the pull —

each and every step felt like its own precious moment.

Up I went.

With strength.

With grace.

With presence.

Ozzy and I rested—deservingly,

when we finally reached that light.

We sat at the top of the hill

and looked back at where we’d come from.

We looked around at where we were now.

And then we looked further

down the trail —

realizing this wasn’t the end.

But the best place was exactly where we were.

Able to see behind us,

able to see ahead —

yet living right here,

in this moment,

beneath warm beams of sunlight,

with the river echoing through the hills.

This was the truest place of all.

And in that quiet light,

something softened in me.

Not a revelation,

not a dramatic insight —

just a gentle knowing rising from the same place my breath rises.

Even with all the interruptions —

from my own mind,

from the world around me —

meditation has been shaping me.

Quietly.

Steadily.

Without announcement.

I’ve been evolving in the spaces I give myself.

So quietly I didn’t notice until now.

The calm I feel when my flow

is interrupted —

knowing I’ll find my way back.

The clarity to follow through on those whispers that inspire me.

The boundaries that formed themselves.

The quiet pull to move forward in everything I do.

To try harder.

To be better.

To live better.

To feel the beauty in every ordinary moment.

Just because it’s there.

Just because it’s ours.

Just because—

It truly is…

Beautiful.