This is where I meditate and write on summer mornings. The house is closed up to keep out the sun, and this one window remains open, overlooking a shaded area to the north. I have a view of the mountains in the distance, the Albion Plateau closer by, and the hilltop village of Viens a little further to the east. I’m kept company by cicadas and the occasional caw of a crow playing at the edge of the woods bordering the plateau. The wind carries a faint scent of lavender, somewhat lost in the grass dried by the July sun. To my left is a rosebush, planted by my mother two summers ago; it refuses to be guided by the stakes meant to keep it running along the wall and instead sprawls across the ground not far from my feet.
I simply gaze; I do nothing. I watch the strand of wild wheat swaying in the wind. Behind me, the wall shields me from homework, from things I need to do, from the computer sitting on the table on the other side of the window. Besides, the internet is down. A truck tore the cable while trying to drive down the tiny road leading to the hamlet.
Sheltered from myself on the little island that is my meditation cushion. Withdrawn from the habits of doing, of working, of efficiency. Here I claim, without aggression, without even thinking about it, the human right to simply be.
From here I watch nature change as summer unfolds, the flowers turn golden and fade away, the clovers persist at my feet despite the heat and the wind. I let myself go, I, too, in the flow of the world. Finally carried along.
