Grounded

Summer's suddenly got heavy. Whether it's the thunderheads outside my window, or the sweaty humidity of sauna Ohio in July, or this new moon, suddenly everything seems like a huge effort.

Everyone in the house is grounded - whether through misdeeds, or simply laying-on-the-couch with a good book, stomachs full of the muffins we baked as breakfast but ate as lunch. We got fresh blueberries from the store last night in a late, out-for-milk dash, and I broke up the muffin and ate it with the berries and milk in a big cup, like Peter Rabbit.

Sometimes the books I like to read aren't grownup fiction. I read Touching Spirit Bear yesterday. The author has raised his own 700lb black bear and his cover photo shows the bear - with a huge grin on its maw - giving the author an equally massive hug. It made me think about how important fiction was for me until college, when I had to read too much for work and couldn't justify it for pleasure anymore.

And going to England where I couldn't afford to buy books and let others convince me book-buying was frivolous and not a lifeblood thing. How long does it take sometimes to recover who we were and what we loved - and what would still nourish us if we could only remember?

It feels so good just to be in this house listening to the clock ticking and writing on my new toy. What's inside me today is a yearning for rest, and beneath that, a lovely sense of peace that's been occupying my chest since summer began. I would love for everyone to be able to feel this - although it was so disconcerting at first. What? Is nothing there? Who turned out the lights? Where's all that anxiety gone? I'd love for all people to feel this. Not just an absense of fear, but a unique sensation of goodness.

Blessings!