The days pass. I am enjoying my downtime. It has been years that I have been working hard long hours. I can breathe. I have time to plant, to tend, to harvest. I have time to sing, to drum, to pray, to embroider, to write.
Yet there lingers a sense of guilt.
This is what I would like to make sense of. With all of this beauty around me, and a gift for making beautiful, why guilt?
Is this a guilt for being lucky enough to have a job and a home where I can retreat from the risk of contagion? Is this a guilt from being still when the impetus is to be often busy?
I step into the guilt, and it disappears, undefined.
And I am okay with that.
Creator, in these times that defy reason, allow me to accept the Mystery. Between my birth, and my death, and my Now, the Mystery is all that there is. Aho!