ANYONE who doesn’t believe life is filled with mystery just isn’t paying attention. Buck and I returned home last week after an arduous drive to take care of business, one of those trips that is a “let’s get it done” thing where you don’t wish to linger. We spent several days nearly four hundred miles from Pensacola, did our work, and drove home bone-weary.

Dusk fell as we unpacked. I moved to the kitchen and cracked eggs for a quick supper scramble. Buck called out to me.

“Look, it’s the white dove.”

We hadn’t seen her for months, but there she was, padding around on the concrete patio just outside the sliding glass doors, a round interrogator’s eye looking in. I had stopped feeding birds months ago, partly because of the dogged persistence of a raccoon clan that ate up all the seed and made a terrible mess, and partly because I’ve been distracted. But before we left on our short trip I saw a Cardinal pair sitting on the chain link fence and felt a mother’s guilt. So I halfheartedly strewed a line of sunflower seeds just where the patio and grass meet. The white dove waddled over to it and pecked.

After supper, eaten in our night-clothes, I remembered my cell phone was still in the car and went out to the porte cochere to fetch it. When I opened the front door of the house and stepped out, I was bathed in brilliant silver light. I moved out into the driveway and saw the moon. The super moon. I went back into the house and called for Buck to come look. We stood there for the longest, arms wrapped around one another. That sight was better than three hours of solid sleep.

 

Super moon. This astonishing photo was taken by "Tank" Shireman on Pensacola Beach, August 11, 2014.

Super moon. This astonishing photo was taken by “Tank” Shireman on Pensacola Beach, August 11, 2014.

Later, tucked in our own bed, the sprawling California King we call “The Cloud,” I began to read Jon Kabat-Zinn’s iconic book, Full Catastrophe Living.

It wasn’t quite breaking dawn when I slipped out of bed the next morning, went upstairs to my long unused yoga mat, assumed a sitting position, lit a small candle, and breathed. The bell chimed. I listened to a guided meditation. It chimed three times. I went downstairs and walked to the gate.

So sweet, this moment. This mysterious moment.

Add a cairn to the path.

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