I am barely out of the back door of the office and my pumps are suddenly, irrationally oppressive; I stand in the middle of the parking lot and peel them off, start walking, shoes dangling from my fingertips by their toes. It’s hot again. There are clouds building up in the west, but it doesn’t feel like rain. At 6,000 feet, there’s not much to buffer the unrelenting sun, dull the movements of air; there’s a quick breeze that does nothing but lift the sweat off the back of my neck, a small and fugitive relief.
The heat under my feet feels good, reminds me of feral summers. I’ve softened, I think; I’m wincing, stepping carefully around cracks and through cobblestones and driveways. The child I was could have run flat-out on blacktop in 110 degree weather – like a water bug, nothing can hurt you if you move fast enough.
I’m slowing down now. Working on really paying attention, being in the world. My art and writing have been lying fallow these last few months, and I always find, at these times, when I start coming back to myself, that it’s less about fatigue than about detachment, getting in a rut. When I pay attention to what is happening around me, or to the experience of memory, I can feel the well starting to refill.
