Current No. 31 of 31 · the second half of life

Still Water

All six parts held nearly level this season

Still Water, an original photograph by John G. Geier III

On a still morning the lake holds the whole sky, and someone on the dock asks whether anything is happening out there. Plenty is. None of it is splashing. Every part of your life is holding at once, and none of it is shouting.

You will recognize this

A good week, with nothing wrong in it: the walk, the call to your sister, the bills paid, the seed order for spring. Someone asks what is new, and you say, “Oh, not much.” That answer is true and incomplete. A great deal is happening. None of it is in a hurry.

You gave your story, your gifts, your body, your letting go, your hopes and your legacy about the same weight, and for now all six are holding. However it came about, steadiness like that often takes more than it shows. Nobody thanks the person who keeps every plate turning, because nothing falls.

This season

For decades, life chose the lean for you: the job, the children, the mortgage, a parent who needed you. Now nobody assigns the week. That is freedom, and it can also leave everything at the same quiet level, waiting to be chosen.

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