A tree stripped of its leaves cuts across the left of the frame, and beneath it, in deep shade, a wooden bench faces the lake. White mist hangs low over the ridge on the far side, and a faint light spreads wide across the water. The grass is still yellow with winter, and the air is cold enough to sting the back of the hand.
Facing a scene like this, the breath lengthens on its own. The shoulders move a little farther from the ears, and fingers curled up inside a pocket slowly open. The eyes cannot hold their focus on any one point and drift loosely along the ripples.
Through the busy days, the mind was always half a step ahead of the body, out toward the next thing to do. The empty backrest brings that half step back.
If there is a place to sit right now, let us sit for just three minutes. Water, a branch, whatever is outside the window, why not pick one thing that moves on its own and follow only its swaying with the eyes. There is no goal of having to feel something; it is enough to leave it swaying and watch.
The same three minutes also arise in the evening while waiting for the kettle to boil. The kitchen window is already dark, and until the water boils there is nothing much for the hands to do. At such a time, in place of turning the gaze out the window, one could choose to count how far the belly swells and falls. Any number of times will do, and there is no need to weigh whether it is deepening or growing shallow; it is enough to notice only that rising and falling.
The ripples keep spreading whether anyone watches or not, and the bench faces that way all day again today.
