The floor is dirty. Small piles of dusty hair sit in the corners. Lego pieces are scattered under the kitchen table, on the bottom shelf of the bookcase. The sun hasn’t reached the back room where I sit. I see it over the trees waiting for another hour to pass before it hits the ceiling windows. It is quiet. Very quiet. The baby is asleep. The visitors have left for an hour. I have time and space for a small moment, my first in a week. I am lost, sitting in front of the computer waiting for my fingers to move as they hover over the keyboard, aimless. I look around me and realise that in fact, this is a kind of meditation. Jazz is playing unobtrusively. There are no other noises. No thoughts are going through my head. And it strikes me, isn’t this the Zen I’m constantly looking for?
I’m sitting at the kids’ table. I notice more permanent texta scribbles, bits of dried Weetbix and remains of milkshake Sdash spilt two days ago. My legs are too long for the little red chair I sit on. I’m cold but not cold enough to walk over to the heater and put it on. It’s like time stands still. I don’t know which way to go. Whether to get up. Whether to go outside. Whether to get my black cardigan which is lying freshly dry-cleaned on the bed upstairs.
This is just another Monday morning except this moment feels laden with something more. Something I can’t grasp but I feel I should. It’s as if there is a secret being whispered to me but I can’t quite hear. Is this moment, this indistinct, fleeting, unremarkable moment meant to mean something? I can’t help but feel it does.
Perhaps it just means that it is. This is. This just is. This is just it. Life isn’t really much more than an accumulation of these moments. We try hard to make it more but it doesn’t need to be because this moment is full of so much. For me, it is full of peace. I know it will last just a brief time. It will not be long before I remember something I should be worrying about. Before I remember to get the wet clothes out of the machine. Before I remember that I need to cook Lbaby something for lunch. Before I remember that I need to shop and begin looking in our cupboards for what needs to be replaced. Before I remember the phone call I forgot to return. Before I remember the article I bookmarked last week to read. Before the phone rings, my husband reminding me to collect the dry cleaning. Before I hear the postman shove letters into the box and wonder what news befalls us today. Before the floor’s accumulation of dust gets the better of me and I collect the broom from under the stairs.
In this fragile moment, it is just me and my breath and the chill in the air and the sun slowly moving towards our windows and the baby’s breath as he sleeps in his cot and the piles of dust scattered on the floor. I think of nothing. Nothing speaks to me, nothing pains me, nothing moves me.
It is these moments I should wish for and not worry that they seem so expansive. So empty. Because, thank goodness, this is just it.