I know it’s late.
You just want to sit inside all day and do nothing, run out the clock on this day, and maybe try again tomorrow.
That mosquito bite on the sole of your left foot is driving you crazy and has made you shy away from sitting outside in the gathering dusk or the rising dawn or the fleeting midday shade.
Your stomach aches, whether from too much food or too little or the wrong kind you’re not sure, but it’s uncomfortable.
Your children are wild and full of evening energy, and their whooping and leaping makes you anxious and unnerved.
The thought of the sun on your skin reminds you of your uneven tan, its obvious lines, and how, if you were a responsible person, you probably would have bought sunscreen before late July.
I know. I understand.
But sometimes you need to go outside anyway. Even though it’s not easy. Even though you’d rather plug in and tune out.
Because the grass is dried to hay-blond and its susurration in the breeze tells a secret.
Because the mourning dove is trying out his gentle call from that oak tree, right there outside the kitchen door.
Because the hills seem so close you could reach out and touch them but also a part of a golden fairyland in the lateral evening light.
Because the cross orb weaver on your tomato plant is just putting the finishing touches on tonight’s silken net.
Because the sky is still so blue.
Because the hens are clucking softly to themselves as they forage for a few last bites.
Because the blackberries are so ripe they stain your fingers no matter how tenderly you pick them.
Because the butterflies are chasing each other over the brambles and across the fences.
Because the wind smells sweet with hay and spicy with cookfire smoke and fresh from the river.
Right now, a Steller’s jay is stopping off in your fir tree to select nesting materials.
Right now, a train whistle is echoing off the ridges and over the water.
Right now, the breeze is freshening just a little and the sky is ocean-deep.
Right now, the scent of warmed earth and crushed blackberry is more summery than anything you’ve ever known before.
From out here, the children’s cries are muted and distant, and you can love them for their untamed nature.
From out here, you can’t hear the big bad world– or those mean-girl voices in your head– at all.
From out here, the work piled up on your desk doesn’t seem quite real, and you can have faith that there will be time enough for everything.
When you’re outside, you can breathe.
Breathe in deep through your nose. Open your mind wide and be present. Breathe out slowly through your mouth, open your chest and release your spent and troubled air.
This is but one day of a lifetime. Nothing has to be finished nor perfect today.
This is where you are now, and it is good.
This is all you are, this moment in the setting sun, this place full of hay-scented grasses and straw-colored hair on little heads, all bowing to you in recognition and shaking irreverently in the breeze.
You are the breath of your home, your family– you, too, must go in and out.
To release the toxins, and let the trees worry about recycling them.
To take in what you need to live, what the mosses and the weeds give back to you.
No more excuses.
It can’t wait until tomorrow, not this time.
Go outside, and breathe.