As I write this, I am sitting outside. The thick canopy of trees in my yard shades me from the brilliant sun. Between the branches with their leaves a million shades of green, I see the steady, all-encompassing blue of the sky. A neighbor is cleaning gutters. I hear the clanging of the ladder as she moves it around her house. Someone is playing a radio, not near enough for me to make out the channel. Road traffic underscores the constant singing of dozens of songbirds. Somewhere, there is construction of some kind, because I can hear the distant hum of heavy machinery. Closer to me is the babble of the waterfall in my pond. A mourning dove takes flight, her wings whistling as she flies from one branch to another. Insects are investigating the early spring flowers. A jet’s roar momentarily cuts through the other sounds and then is gone. Kyoko the cat from across the street has been by for a quick visit, as has a hawk who, I suspect, may have been thinking to check out the frogs in the pond. A soft breeze plays through the Siberian irises, where one bud is already on the verge of bloom. Across the street, a thick stand of bamboo sways in the gentle wind.
These things I know, now, at this moment. My senses are engaged with the living world around me. I don’t know, nor do I care, how it came to be here, only that it is. And it is perfect. Good. Right.
Nothing else exists. And none of it is permanent.