My best meditations are moving. So happy to see a little of spring and be able to take out the bike.
As a little girl (eight, nine and ten), I would follow the well worn path, around the dog run, under the sheets hanging on the line, behind the makeshift baseball diamond into the wooded outfield (if the ball made it past the second baseman, you were pretty much in the clear – depending on the tree interference ruling), careful not to step in any suspicious leaf and stick covered booby traps, going almost to the edge of the ravine over to the thinking rock, which even at ten was large enough to lay back on without my feet touching the ground. And I would stare upwards into the mass of leaves and branches catching shimmering glimpses of the sun, while conjuring hidden elfin kingdoms who desperately needed my help to deter some cataclysmic event, or planning what I would do with mind reading powers, or not thinking of anything but staying perfectly still and seeing how close the birds would come before being spooked.
In that space you were connected to everything, the proof of harmony, order and purpose to the universe surrounding you.
Age intrudes and I will never be ten again. But as I rode along the bike path early in the morning, I caught a glimpse of an elf and passed an old man who could read minds and slowed to a stop listening to the birds converse.
And I wonder if the little girl who lives in my old home now, has found that rock.