This morning feels thick. Breathing takes a little more effort. Instead of air sneaking in then out without a notice I feel a heaviness on my chest. I open my nostrils wider and consciously broaden my shoulders giving more space for my lungs to fill up and push out. This, a process of mere seconds, pokes my awareness as I come out the kitchen door into the green scape of the back yard.
I smell earth’s aroma. There’s a mama deer and her two newborns walking along the path just outside the tall fence. Tallulah runs over to her and growls to mark the boundary from her side. I watch as mama deer hesitates and seems conflicted about leaving her babies. Soon she leaps into the bush and her two little ones follow.
It all takes a few moments, easily missed except for the high dew point that isn’t about to be ignored. It nudges me to notice it. Moisture hangs in the air, crows caw, blue jays make that contented whistle sound they sometimes do, and squirrels scurry away quickly. They must all sense that Tallulah is close by.
My eyes blink. My intuitive sense looks around and notices the quality of this place, the same way I pause to take in the beauty of a painting. There is a split second when everything and everyone breaks through our reverie. We sense each other. I notice them and they notice Tallulah and me. That’s it. It’s one moment noted.