I sit in a rusty chair in the backyard and watch my father play catch with the dog. The sunlight warms my body and heart. I am content. I observe quietly. I am left alone. Even the dog does not interrupt my stillness.

I wonder if I was born to quietly observe. To be a watcher of sorts. To report back to the universe what I see in the universe and nothing more. Perhaps I am meant to be a thing amid things. A thing with senses, yes, but still just a thing.

What do I see? Light. Shadows. Dirt. Unkempt grass. Trees. Different species of beast. None of these things need my words or thoughts. We are in one another’s company and that is enough.

My work today will demand that I be more than an observer. And I resent it for that. All I can give to others is what this blade of grass gives me: quiet self-contained presence.

I am afraid to move from this spot. I want to remain here. This is the only thing that has felt right so far this week. The only thing that has felt pure and true. I tear up at the idea of moving, which means that I have already moved—already lost the purity of this stillness.

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