Clinging

There are scenes in movies, usually independent, and in poetic photographs, when sunlight grazes the glass of an uncovered window and a warm glow penetrates the room. There is a reverie in that light, and small things can be seen. 

I adjusted my legs during that moment today, during an actual occurrence of one of those poetic scenes, and the dust and cat hair from my blanket was catapulted into a stream of reflected sun. I watched each particle as they floated and lingered in the air. Carelessly hanging out. Casually moving into the darkness. It was soothing, so I kicked the blanket again to make more dust appear, and to give mind something pleasant and simple to focus on. And then I kicked it again. The dust filling the air reminded me of the day Tony brought in the bubble machine to teach everyone about mindfulness. A room full of self-identified recovering alcoholics  and one person who was pretty sure she wasn’t. But the bubbles floated, and I sat and noticed–and was soothed by the white noise  of the whirring motor of the bubble machine. 

Now, I watch the dust float, not wanting it to settle. Soothed by the hum of the air purifier that is working to remove the dust I’m enjoying. I need those particles. I need each one to cling to the air so I can cling to them. I need the spaces between them to fill my mind so everything inside will be pushed out. I need the hum to form a blanket that smothers the rapidly repeating thoughts that wear grooves so deep into my psyche that I begin the feel the darkness sinking in my chest and I can barely breathe and my eyes begin to water. They are keeping me present. They are keeping me calm. 

As the sun moves, the light becomes less and less. There is a draft from the open window, and there is nothing left for me to hold on to. Resolve settles into the left corner of my mouth, and I decide that I should probably get that bubble machine. 

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