I lay on the sage green duvet and watch the clouds go by. I should be cleaning. I should be writing. But I am moving soon, and I know I will miss the uninterrupted view of the sky that my fourth-floor apartment offers me. So I watch. I think about my elementary school’s back field. Its soft, deep green grass, kicking my left leg over my right, knee bent, cloud gazing. I did this simple, quiet act of observing the world so often as a child. When did I stop?

In this strange world that feels like it’s falling apart at the seams, I am struggling to show up. But I am trying. Trying to distract myself and immerse myself in community. Trying not to resent the strange, insincere normalcy work takes on during tumultuous seasons. Trying to observe.

So even in the sea of dissonance, I cup little joys in my palm. I reach for what soothes my startled heart. I laugh with my loved ones. I listen to sound bowls. I snuggle my cat every morning and every evening, and tell her I love her. I marvel at my hands chopping vegetables, at the steam rising from the boiling pot of water. When the mourning dove calls to me through the window, I know spring is coming. I know Mother Earth will yawn and stretch her arms, welcome me into a bed of flowers. I read poetry. I lather myself in expensive lotions, because I can, because I deserve luxury daily. I breathe. I turn into myself.

I cup these joys like little glass beads, watching everything I love almost desperately, as if it will be ripped from me. I am lulled into a state of gratitude with an undercurrent of sheer fear of loss, of a world I cannot control spilling and shattering my joy on the ground.

I wonder if I will always feel this way—if the act of loving will always carry the weight of knowing, fearing, it will end. I look up at the sky, the clouds shifting, unraveling, reforming. I watch them go, knowing, like me, they were never meant to stay.

Until next time…

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with love, amy elizabeth