The restless herd animal inside me is always seeking the next pasture. The next mountain range. The next spring.
I tell my hurried brain to soften: there is nothing but now. Nothing but rocks and worms and clouds and sun.
But my nerves buzz incessantly: what else- what else- what else. The answers come only in the form of soil shifting, of gravel and pebbles, of worms and rot.
November clouds. February sun. The seasons keep cycling no matter what.
Calm feels like a crime, but the busy days devastate me.
I kind did the wide sky stretching out ahead. I yearn for water, for rolling hills, for tree lines opening into unexpected meadows.
What could I be, if I spent my days doing nothing but living? I would watch the trees. Dig my fingers into dirt. Cook my food. Clean my pan. See the wind moving. Feel the temperature shift over the day.
There is nothing more I want. There is nothing more I need. But my mind always turns to something else. The next thing. Tomorrow.
So again I pull myself back. To the rocks. To the worms. To the clouds. To the procession of bees in summer and the dark birds in winter.