What the Evening Knows

The habit I’m trying to break comes crawling through the unlocked window at dusk. I recognize its familiar face, but not the dangerous look it’s giving me right now. I call 911 while I pin its neck to the floor with my foot. My habit does not resist and even relaxes a bit under the pressure and begins to grin while I explain my problem to the dispatcher.  “An arresting officer will arrive at dawn,” I tell my habit. While we wait, my habit wants to talk to me about the garden, a few plants in particular that I seem to have been neglecting these past few years. I apologize for my neglect and assure my habit that I can be a better gardener if I try. I promise to try harder tomorrow. My habit is appeased. And now my habit is my ottoman, and I am sitting with my feet up in my favorite chair listening to my habit’s innate good sense about gardening and many other topics of shared concern. I’m grateful for my habit’s advice, so I offer it a drink. My habit is no longer my ottoman but is now the glass in my hand.  And what’s inside the glass is something I never would have suspected. Here inside the glass is a different key—not the one the morning always hides—that opens the door to a deeper perception.

[LSS, 12/8/20]