My favorite place to stretch out, to escape, is the floor of my living room. I’m below the line of earth outside the front windows when I’m that low; I can see the sky, the growing building across the street; a different view every day.
I have always felt airy and so this recent need to be at level with the ground outside is interesting for me to watch. No judgment. Just now, I left the counter, where I have piles of papers spread out, working on a memoir project for a new imprint, to take to the floor. The pull was intense. (Maybe I didn’t get enough savasana in yoga today.)
This weekend, our neighbors are away in Ireland, along with another group of friends, there for a separate wedding, so in addition to suddenly feeling like Ireland is the place to be we are babysitting some plants they left in our care: basil, peppers, an unnamed leafy thing that is flourishing. Lying down in my spot, all three loom over me from the windowsills, bigger than they actually are, curving towards the late afternoon sunlight. The very sunlight that, I fear, will be much changed once the building across the street is fully erect.
When our plant-sitting stint is over, the only greenery we’ll be left with is the bamboo a dear friend gifted us when we moved in together last year; a Chinese tradition. I always say I don’t want a garden but when in one’s vicinity I find myself swayed, picturing weekends filled with sore backs and muddy knees and a bounty. I imagine myself with a pride in growing something from scratch, from seed. Something beautiful, or delicious. Something to make ourselves remember the ground is a gift; a surprise.