It is so fresh in the garden, fresh after refreshing rain, fresh with early morning light, fresh with the beginning of spring, fresh with the love of a gentle sun. The trees are in that delightful state of being leafed, newly brightly shining green, still small, still testing the air. The spring flowers are drinking in the rain at their roots, drinking in the sun, sitting as still as the Sunday morning. The sky is all blue except for one tiny white wisp of a cloud sailing east which melts into the air as I look. Now we are all blue, we are benign, we are birdsong, we are promise.

The light is awake this morning, sparkling on the close-packed blossom, shining from the new-born leaves, baby green and perfect. It fills the air, it fills the leaves, firming and forming them, calling them to grow, calling them out into this aware air, into this waiting world so that it might be even more beautiful.

The bell has been ringing too often summoning busyness. This is the time I crave the sweetness of silence, to sit at the deep pool and taste its blue waters, to let its stillness seep through me like nightfall.

The day is slow; slowly the clouds float across the blue face of sky, islands in the ocean. Slowly the autumn chill fills the space beneath, a steady presence. There is no wind here, it is still, still and chilled and patient. It slowly filters through my skin, through my breath, until I too am filled with its stillness.

This is the fulcrum between what has been and what is to come, heavy arms that are balanced finely on this point, this now, this me, a V so finely tuned that as you stop here to feel the balance, you can sense the harmonics of this moment of weightlessness between the two weights we all carry.