Driving to my mom’s on Sunday afternoon and, once again, I am late. I’ve let the power of “one more thing” slip from my head to my hands, and I am washing stray dishes, emptying the recycling, sending a text. My chest constricts and my jaw tightens.
“Where are my feet right now?” It’s the reminder I return to, again and again, to loosen my insides and release my heart. I imagine my feet in their black boots, resting on the rubber mat of my Honda Odyssey. I listen to the scream of a silver Mazda zooming past, the wind pushing branches.
There’s one green, I tell myself, noticing the wide umbrella of a blooming willow. And another: the garbage can on the side of Prospect has the number “45” spray-painted on the side. The third shade of green is that grass, right there, unexpectedly bright and shining: an inviting carpet to a home with columns.
My heart rate slows; my chest is open. I feel myself in the only time and space I have. This one. Right now.
Finding three shades of a color – when my mind races – brings me back to the fullness of this moment and my life. This life. This one life. The one I am lucky enough to have. Right now.