Really, it’s unspeakable, even for a writer who makes words their medium for loving this world and what’s in it: the wash of well-being and profound connection to all that is life and meaning that happens in the simple act of sitting with an aging, beloved dog in a sunny patch in the yard, cleaning his ears, cutting his toenails, brushing out his spring shed, and giving him a cookie; picking up that cookie when it falls from his mouth into a pile of pine needles and wiping it off for round two of crunching; the weight of his head on your lap; the call of a chickadee making you both look up for a moment; the re-settling into sun-blind relaxation, heavy and content, at rest with each other.

So necessary, that silent sustenance.

So full.

So perfect.


One response to “Peace

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