Sit.

Time on the cushion is not
a straight line.
Past present and future circle
around each other,
turn in and out of themselves,
swirl together and come apart.
A melting pot of moments,
real and imagined,
salted and peppered
with attachment and aversion.
They combine and compound.

Soup.

I should be sitting in the soup,
Floating in the Big Mind Broth.
But instead I am stewing,
Coagulating and congealing.
In the thickness of thought.
Chunks of 1972,
Hunks of the 80s,
Pieces of impending doom.
A dollop of depression,
a morsel of misery,
a pinch of panic.
A ladle of longing
and a gallon of regret.
A lump of loss,
and a shred of sanity.
I am simmering.

Simmering.

The thoughts break through the surface
With a pop!pop!pop!
Past!Past!Possible Future!
Past and possible future,
all at once, all together.
A bead of memory,
a ball of anxiety,
a blister of despair.
They bubble and boil,
tugging me in ten directions.
But my breath, my breath,
my breath brings me back
to now. Now. Now.
A buoy of hope floats up and hangs there,
swimming on the surface,
treading. Treading in this moment,
tethered. Tethered to the breath.

Sip. Sip.

Sipping the breath.
Now I am right here.
Here I am right now.
Now. Here. This.
Now. And Here. And This.
Now and here and this.
Breathing in the broth
of nowandhereandthis.
Sip, sip, swallow.
And sigh.