These early days of June have been so achingly sweet. How did I ever leave the house and go to a job? We're never apart now for more than an hour or two. We sit on the balcony and watch the river. She does her doggy meditation, I attempt my human form, she goes on the gentlemen's walk with my husband, and I write until lunch. We roam the yard looking for things to smell, and we sit on the rocks and stare at the water moving steadily as breath. We walk in late afternoon.
Yesterday she startled some grackles away from their favorite backyard willow, but she ignored the baby groundhogs who could have been lunch. She doesn't chase every bunny she sees now, but she stares them down until they're out of harm's way. For a while before dinner after our walk I swung myself in the hammock and watched her chew on grass and thought about nothing at all.
Cool nights. Green grass. Furry black dog. Leaves plumping up and filling the trees while light winds carry the aromas of early herb gardens. The great blue heron, the big blue sky. A full moon on Monday, then the transit of Venus on Tuesday, and now as the week winds down, just the peace that comes after one of those big stellar shakedowns.
I work on the France novel, then go out to the yard to pet her, then head upstairs again. This is my work now. This is my job.
Sweet early June. I will never forget these days. How I long to make them pass slowly, as slowly as it takes to write a 500-page novel, as slowly as it takes for some of us (moi!) to learn what peace is and how it's always accessible right here, right now, in a single moment of an otherwise unremarkable day in June.