Tonight after work, I sunk into my hammock. Sometimes I become so emotionally overwhelmed that I have to stop and breathe. I have to let my thoughts that have been huddled in the corners of my brain waiting for their chance to exercise play out. I have to slow down. So I stared at the bug-eaten leaves, watched a leaf fall. It felt poetic, watching the leaf fall much before it needed to. No one is going to determine when it’s his time.
Tucker jumped into the hammock with me: although he was very skeptical about falling through the ropes, he doesn’t like to be alone. I laid there, relishing in my time away from chatter and conversation and human-generated noise. I listened to the shrill of the cicadas. I get Henry David Thoreau. Although I’m not low-maintenance and resourceful enough to live off the land in solitude, it’s nice in theory. If anyone rents out cabins in solitude but with room service, I’m first to sign up.