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  • Writer's picturestephanieraffelock

On the Seventh Day

I need a day in between the other days.

A day for naps and books.

A day to curl up and let my mind empty of concerns, demands and worry.

I need a day to contemplate the art of being.

Walking through the neighborhood this morning, a steady sprinkle of rain made the green lawns look emerald, and blessed the flowers pushing up from the soil.

The rain on my body was like holy tears, a moment of overflowing beauty, a baptism into the natural world, cleansing the muck and the chaos

offering hope.

A day in between with no discipline in site.

No deadlines or pushing to finish anything.

A day in between the other days,

to read some pages from the stacks of books on the coffee table,

on my desk, on the bedside stand.

Books like breadcrumbs,

follow through the house, anticipating promises.

Monday rolls around soon enough with a list of things.

Phone calls to be made.

Appointments to be kept.

Deadlines to make.

Tentacles spreading to the reaching week.

How did the idea of productivity become so pronounced, front and center

begging the question, can I love and be loved without it?

In constant search of balance.

In constant search of home.

A place where I love life just because I’m here,

without contingencies like goals met or ambitions filled.

One day

in between

all the other days,

immersed in the beauty and the grief of life without resolve or destination.

Last night the stars moved through the trees.

Fireflies, lit up the dark with pinpoint bursts of white and gold.

The moon played hide and seek with clouds and a soft wind blew across the grasses where the dog rested with his head tilted to the sky.

When I let the world wrap around me like this, it pulls me into someplace that I know.

Ever looking for "home."

Where do I belong?

To the day in between the other days?

Getting my bearings once again

in this human two-step of grasping and letting go,

inching toward eternity.

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