Morning Meditation In A Cloud

I sit in a cloud, birds like an orchestra pit before the show begins, the weight, warmth and vibrating hum of the cat on my lap.

The neighbors cornfield looks impossibly steep, like an escarpment instead of the hill it is. It’s some kind of illusion, the fog stretching the land as if nothing lays beyond it.

I’ve alway had this idea that the morning fog starts out thick and gets thinner till it goes away completely.  But that’s not how it works, the fog often clears and obscures many times before it leaves for good.

For a moment the trees across the road from the cornfield make a ghostly appearance.  When they do, the cornfield suddenly shrinks back to its true size.

I sit and watch the hill grow and shrink as the trees fade and magically appear in the mist.

My mind slips into the pain of the past.  The comfort of familiarity keeps me there, a warped indulgence.  But this place is also the easiest to come back from once I realize I am there.

Because what is in front of me, my life at this moment, is the only place I want to be.

I let the past vanish like the trees in the fog, even though I know they are actually still there.

But also the green mountains beyond the trees and the endless sky above them.