Floating in the Now

This is the way I’d like to begin every morning of my life: naked, in a Jacuzzi, surrounded by a majestic silence, where only woodpeckers can be heard – where the only movement is a black hawk circling overhead, against the white of cumulus clouds and the rare but fairytale-blue patches of sky. The silence is positively holy – reminiscent of the moment in a Mass when the priest consecrates the bread and wine above the altar. I gulp the silence as though parched, and eat the bread of it like I have never tasted it before.

We are in the woods (so not to worry, my friends – nobody can see my knockers). We came to this cottage tucked away in the hills of Tomales Bay to celebrate ten years of marriage. Tree covered hills are in every direction, spotted with every possible shade of green. Here on the property, tree branches are trimmed with a sage-colored lichen – a wishful sort of Christmas tree – and their trunks spotted with varying shades of lichen: bright yellow and minty green. The morning fog has gathered its body up from the bay below and hung itself out to dry in the sky over the hilltops. The keen morning air is scented with possibility.

Out in the tub, I am positively alone but for the morning-busy bird life; Chad is still in the cottage, sleeping between the impossibly soft flannel sheets. I love it when the grace of life allows for everyone’s needs to be met simultaneously. My need, though I didn’t really know it, is this astounding solitude. In the warm water, I stretch my body in every direction: this baby-holding, muscle-aching, lunch-packing, child-loving, homework helping, carpooling, bath-giving, toilet-scrubbing, art-teaching, fight-refereeing, fever-soothing, dinner-making, mess-cleaning, laundry-folding, Christmas shopping (just shoot me now) body. I let this weary body float. I let it cry a little. I let it do these things because it finally has time to do them. I shed tears of accumulated exhaustion and for the sweet relief of rest. The glory is found in this: that my body holds nothing now; but is instead being held by the generous waters. And I think to myself: How we need this sometimes: to stop holding and be upheld. How we need respite.

A little later, Chad wakes to the solitude-happy, coffee-grinding woman in the kitchen (oops – did I wake him?). Standing at the sink in the navy blue and white Kimono I found in the closet, my wet hair drips into a coffee cup. Chad comments about a poor night’s sleep. In a prompt moment of realization, I say, “But it’s alright! We have no occasion to rise to. You can nap all day if you like.” He smiles, and looks relieved. We haven’t been away from our lives even 24 hours yet, and already, I feel like a Rastafarian, strolling around the property, stroking the lichen on tree trunks, bird-watching and nibbling dark chocolate, sipping tea – all with the greatest “don’t worry be happy” sensation running all through me. For breakfast, we eat bowls of muesli – whole almonds, dates and oats resting perfectly between our teeth, nourishing our bodies in a manner unfamiliar: slow and leisurely. The thought occurs to me we could just stay here and eat muesli all day – if we wanted. And even if we don’t, I love it that we can! Oh the bliss of freedom….

Freedom to let it all go! I glance at the table, still scattered with items from last night: Chad’s watch and some Yahtzee dice lying at the foot of two half-filled wine glasses and a pepper grinder. On the rug below a pair of panties, and two knee-high wool socks, all folded in on themselves, tired and satisfied, like sleeping puppies after hard play. Our wedding and honeymoon photo albums are splayed open on the ottoman. The flashlight that led us to the hot tub last night sits on the barstool. A half-eaten baguette sleeps on the counter top next to some rather dry persimmon slices. I think from the hour we first set out, there has been a letting go. In the market, on the way up, we let go of our budget and bought a wheel of Cowgirl Creamery Cheese for seventeen dollars and a Cabernet we were told to let breathe for thirty minutes before drinking. We bought twenty dollars worth of dark chocolate bars and ahi tuna kabobs. We ate our barbequed ahi with sushi rice, cross-legged by the fire, covered in blankets, at nine o’clock at night, and lingered for hours listening to Enya. This morning, after my shower in the outdoor shower (yes, it’s as amazing as it sounds) I even let my beard go! No plucking for me, my friends! No deodorant even. And no tidying: just things draped everywhere like holiday decorations.

It feels so incredibly good not to be running the ship. We have sailed off to hidden shores and here we hide until it’s over and we have to return. The thought of returning threatens my free state with an instant list of waiting chores and undone things and the troubles of home: dirty floors, rats in the ceiling, the incessant needs of children and all the demands of life. But we won’t think about that now – because now is now, and now is all we have!

I step inside the wide open, gracious now and let go.