Early spring, and the world around me chirp-ticks. My heart rises so hopeful. I hope she makes it in her flight. I can hardly watch.

Blood streams with oxygen-rich blood. Pulse beats strong. The whoosh-whooshing feels alive and inspired. I sit, one holy woman on a planet that’s seriously ill. It’s always both at once—perfect, and as it should be—and in need of our shifting. Seismic shifts that must happen before the ice floes break apart and the polar bears starve.

The paradox:

a) I don’t know if I can bear it!

b) It’s quite lovely though, isn’t it?

I’m doing my part in the shift show. Last night, as I dreamed and dosed, I healed chunky albatrosses of old stagnant beliefs. I meditated and talked with my invisible healers who help me. A whooshing in to look at what’s wrong, healing, a whoosh out so my MAP Team could reassemble me. In and out of tunnels like arteries cleaning, cleaning, so my blood flows unimpeded, so the light travels through me brightly.

Emotions catch us as we hurl through space and time. The body, however, speaks into the quiet moments.

OK, dear one. I’m listening.

I’m so sad, she says: I want it all. Time writing in the sun, and then more tea, and then to dance, time to play the bass guitar, to study for my bodywork licensing exam, to eat fried potatoes with eggs over easy and hold a good book and cry because I have the time to read it.

Yes and yes. One thing at a time, it will all come to you. I have breakfast with two close friends set for Saturday on the lawn at Chautauqua Park, eating takeout from Chautauqua’s restaurant including their paprika-salted home fries. There shall be tea! And shall laugh in sunshine. Today’s forecast reads “Plentiful sunshine.” I stare at that word “plentiful” somehow showing up in a weather app. There’s a human there creating that! Saturday should be 61. Sadly, while checking the weather, I also discover a Kentucky town has been drowned.

Like, uh. Sorry! I can’t afford to give to the Red Cross today. Pray?

It’s hard to comprehend the true level of sogginess. Having lived through the big flood here a few years back, I feel in my bones the levels of destruction that the picturesque images belie. And I move on into my day anyway because I need to. And it won’t help anyone else for me to become so morose with pity that I bleed tyranny. (Words are too fun sometimes. They don’t have to make any sense!)

Oh blessed morning. Yes! I have listened to my body and now I type outside! At a wrought iron table and chairs. The sun warms me through the tall branches of my neighbor’s cottonwood tree. The birds commence fluttering in a sky of sweet sound. It’s the beginning of everything. Warm boots, fleece pajamas, a long down coat, sunhat. I was made for this. There is nothing wrong with me or this moment.

And I start to cry. I arch and lean back in my chair, eyes closed and smiling. My heart reaches forward and hear the birdsong in my throat—in our shared instruments.

I stop to click Save—to hold onto this moment, not wanting to lose it. And that’s the simple act that kicks us out of the present every time. I smile anyway. We’re human after all. We have this propensity to dwell within the heart of what matters most, but then to leave it out of some impulse to freeze time. We return to discover it all changed.

How do we save the second then? The photographer extends wide into her surroundings, receiving the breath of the Earth that pulses all around her. She feels the click rise inside her, presses a button to store the instant, the infinite.

A bird sings in the reeds.