I’m sitting on our porch in my dream egg chair, sinking deep into a mix of pillows and Mexican blankets, my coffee resting precariously against my criss-crossed legs. The dog is barking at the goat that keeps trying to eat her food, and as I write this she’s given up, deciding to roll around in the grass while the goat indulges in a unique breakfast feast. A few other goats are making their way on top of a large roll bale of hay, where they’ll rotate positions for the rest of the day until they’ve had their fill.
It’s a Sunday, and I’m resting somewhere between that Simple + Good feeling and a new revolution that’s been brewing for months. So much has happened over these last few weeks, in our personal lives, in the world. But nothing brings me peace like this moment, which I keep coming back to whenever I get the chance.
The heat will break this week, which means more time outside, more time walking, meditating, observing, and collecting. I take a moment of silence for the city of New Orleans, where we spent such a magical few days just 3 months ago. I think of the trees being ravaged by wind, their roots uplifted by water; the people running, driving, sitting in traffic just waiting to get out; the old hoodoo shop posting updates from behind their closed doors. Darkness is coming again and we all know it. It never ends. We find ourselves living in panic; in fear of destruction, of pandemic, of further upset. But still, we keep the faith.
I step inside to reach for the tiny bit of Spanish moss I gathered from the base of the Dueling Oaks back in May. It curls and ripples in my hand. Right beside it, I find the seashell I dug out of the dirt on Magazine Street while we waited in the heat for the world’s best snow cone. The moments are so vivid, so clear in my mind. There was such a sense of ease, a promise of freedom back then, back when we thought everything was getting better. I spent that trip looking for meaning, for understanding of a city I’d never known before, and in small tokens like these I nearly found it.
I don’t know what the future holds – for New Orleans in these coming days, for my career in these coming months, for my life in these coming years. But I do know that if I can have this – this keyboard, this quiet, this cool morning air, this sound of goats talking to one another from one side of the pasture to the other – I might be alright. If we can each find our own piece of stillness, of wonder, of natural and simple magic in our lives, we might all be alright.