The Miracle of Your Breath

The waning moon; a gentle arc of planets; a run that ends with a sprint — the ship is crowded, aye, but the deck is clear while the stars are out.

Yesterday our eldest son climbed Mt. Whitney — a twenty-two-mile hike, four and a half hours to the summit, three hours down, the entire descent in a thunderstorm with hail and icy water all around. Back in Lone Pine, a few miles from his starting point, the temperature was still in the nineties. He said the climb was easy, and that after ninety-six switchbacks, at an altitude of thirteen thousand five hundred feet, he came upon a view of two lakes nestled in the rugged, treeless terrain. After that, there was only another thousand feet to go.

Afternoon. Canned, in two wide-mouthed quart jars, the grape leaves we picked from our vine this morning.

Imagine being so bored with your daily life, so blind to its wealth and subtlety, that the miracle of your breath is wasted on you. Then smile and give thanks when your vision is suddenly restored.

July 19, 2022

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