Scalawag
Imposing on my quiet meditation, a persistent, rogue thought shoves its foot in the door, trying to gain entry. And while I sit, my breath swells pushing the thought upward and upward and upward until it escapes through the roof (for lack of welcome).
Not here. Not now.
I will to welcome the darkness, the quiet and the still, and every few minutes, a thought scrambles by like a roach skitters out from under the kitchen range as it tries to search for sustenance, later escaping under a floorboard.
Fine, then. You are welcome to pass through, little roach. But you are not allowed to set up housekeeping, nor will I engage in the chase, or even, in your destruction.
I won’t.
I breathe into the space you would consume with your hunger, and a swirling dust cloud sweeps you out onto the porch.
Know your place, my needy friend. Skitter away, or sit quietly there, under the refrigerator. I know that the dark compels you out to explore and hunt, but sacred mysteries consume the space here, leaving no room for a scapegrace like you.
Incubated in stillness, breath (like pregnancy) expands this womb, swelling into every nook and cranny, creating infinite space for the Holy.
