Twelve days ago, in a field of green surrounded by redwoods, it rained. It rained cold and hard, but it was refreshing.
I stood in the middle of the field; the drops fell on my face and hands. This is good, I thought. This is a chance for me to start up again where I left off. This is important.
My hair was dripping late-summer rain by the time I made it back to my bike. It was still there, right where I’d left it. I hopped up and rode my way up and down and up and down and back to my little home. Back to my music and movies and writing. But I left my burdens there in that field with the green grass.
And then I slept.