MORNING MEDITATION: 10 minutes. Went well. Body felt more relaxed than usual. Less tension between the shoulders. Slight interruption as my husband left the house: Would we eat octopus for dinner? Who would pick it up? Who would prepare it? That settled, I dropped back into the warm blackness of my inner space. Thoughts a bit flighty at first, then calm.
TDC: The feel of my feet on the ground as I left the dentist’s office in an almost celebratory frame of mind. (A good dental cleaning always boosts my spirits.) The realization that—no matter where we are—we are walking over history. Layers and layers of it. Millenia of it. The thought that if all our personal, daily trajectories and wanderings dragged faint threads behind them there would be an infinitely intricate mesh laid across the surface of the earth that would then fall down into the layers of geological time*. I saw a nun crossing the piazza, pleading with someone on her cellphone, moving urgently in a straight line toward, and then through, the center a masonry X.
*These thoughts were probably influenced by a passage I recently read in Ian McEwan’s beautiful book The Children Act. You can read it here.