Time Stops In A Place Like This

I’m learning to meditate—

to find the calm in the shit storm.

It’s not easy.

I want to itch my head, pick my nose, stretch my legs.

Sitting cross legged sucks.

It hurts my ass cheeks.

Some days I sit there counting the minutes until it’s over.

Other days I’m hit with an unexpected breeze

and the sound of a knife on a cutting board.

There’s coffee.

Black.

The kind that tastes good with early morning sunshine

and looks best next to a worn out journal from home.

The pages are damp from the humidity.

In the kitchen there’s papaya and strangers.

I listen for the slow and intentional movement around me.

I hear feet against white tile and sounds of peaceful routine.

Some I recognize.

Some I don’t.

We’re all coming and going, but we’re all here.

This half-built house sits on a beach you’ll never find.

A place I may never send you.

The sand is untouched.

The house unfinished.

It’s missing walls where walls should be.

The shower is outside.

It’s perfectly deserted.

Some projects are meant to be left unfinished.

Some shit is better left alone.

Time stops in a place like this.

Days don’t matter.

The hour is irrelevant.

We walk the beach to remind us how small we are.

We breathe in deep to remind us that this is living too.

At night the beach gets so dark you can’t see your hands in front of you.

We look up for light.

And the stars laugh.

It’s not their job to show us where we’re going.

So I walk in the dark for miles not knowing.

With each step, I re-choose the darkness.

Slow uncertainty.

Eventually, the uncomfortable becomes comfortable

and walking with no vision gets kind of exciting.

And all the while I’m breathing.

Because it’s really all I can do.