If stillness is what I've been trying for these weeks, I make an attempt at keeping an attitude of it this morning as I do my chores. Nothing rocks my little boat. It's a good morning for caulking, and mopping, and silence. It's overcast and cool suddenly, the spring-like warmth of the last two days seeming dreamed. The street is quiet; even the yappy black dog tied up at neighbor's won't bark.
I realize that part of the quiet is the church across the street having shut down and gone up for sale. It was just a small church, with a congregation mostly consisting of little old black ladies in colorful dresses and hats, but when the preacher got going, you could hear him down the street, and services lasted well into the afternoon. I assume that churches, just like businesses, occasionally fail. There's cheap for-sale signs pasted all over the front of it, the sort that usually advertise for-sale lawnmowers, not old giant brick churches.
Later, I chop carrots for the chicken and dumplings soup I'm making for later in the week, when I'll be too tired and probably sad to cook. The carrots are thick, and so I cut them like tree logs: in half, then down the center, then into little quarters of carrot-kindling. This small thing, although stupid, makes me happy.
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