Breathing in the Graveyard

We had perfect weather today. I don't get to say that very often in the fair green state of Washington— it's green for a reason. I like rain, and I don't even mind the gray all that much, but for contrast no place can beat the northwest for its 80-degree, clear May days. All three of them.

I indulged myself on my drive home from town this evening with a stop at the graveyard. It was 8:00, the sun was still high and the ground was warm. I found some floral offerings for my grave— an unopened daisy, blue “weeds”, bluebells and a lilac cluster— then lay on my back in the grass, stared at the sky, and didn't think.

This is difficult by the way. I am female, and turning off the spaghetti function of my brain is like trying to get Einstein to give up theoretical physics. So actually God must have done it because I was literally able to just lie there and breathe. The air was that magic temperature which makes you feel as if you're swallowing something substantial. Maybe it's that Lion Breath we dream of falling on us from the mouth of Aslan. It's heavy, but soft, thick, but sweet, solid, but light. It refreshed me by virtue of its being.

I could have stayed there a long time but the shadows grew long and something pulled me away home, that nameless something which always compels you to leave something so good you can't stand it by yourself. It must be shared to be endured. Happiness, I think.