Swinging on the swing. Watching the world blur. Feeling the pendulum rock me into a kind of meditation. Waiting for something. Again. Thinking random, half-formed thoughts. About swimming naked in the sea. About hurt and how it feels. About the way your pulse moves in the line of your neck. About envy; the grace of dancers defying gravity. About tomorrow’s board meeting. About the taste of lime and champagne. About the farm.
And I wonder, as the swing slows and my feet kick dust into the air, why does this life still feel so on the cusp? Unrooted. Unraveled. Why do these moments only find me when I’m almost at my most centered? When I think it’s good and the way it should be. Why does the nagging crawl of doubt slide in and wait. Again. Why do I feel halved. And undecided. And little.
And the moment passes. And as I walk away, the shifting sky reminds me that small does not necessarily mean done.