The day has so few of them, the places to catch a breath, that one has to cultivate a sort of mindfulness, an ability to find the quiet even when the baby is howling her outrage at the perfidies of naptime.
These are the quiet moments, the one-thing moments, the places where doing and being are in union, no matter how the chaos might be swirling around. These are the quiet moments.
In the quiet moments, the gods come, the gods of those moments. Big gods, little gods, named gods, forgotten gods, it doesn’t matter. They cluster around to hear the poetry read over the bonfire; they raise a glass of wine with the toast; they run free and wild as the children run around and around the driveway, laughing their freedom songs; they come with the thunder’s moment of stillness and they come with the persistence of the rain; they come in the moment of breakthrough that wreaks that written line in and among the laundry and the cleaning and the shrieking of tiny disputes, that instant where there is clarity in the confusion. In the quiet moments, the pure moments.
The baby tucked up against my chest, sprawled and working at her bottle with grand concentration, was quiet, and I cradled her, encouraging her to sleep, resting in the quiet moments.
And, as always in the quiet moments, the god came. Long-legged, heavy with milk, unhuman form enveloping my human one in a shared moment, a shared recognition: this is the quiet space where we are, together.
These are the moments of the gods.
These are the gods of the moments.
(For what woman of Egypt, when painting her eyes, does not see the face of Hetharu in her mirror?)