My red Adirondack chair

I have a red Adirondack chair in my backyard. It’s my seat to an inward journey as I gaze outwardly at the sky.

Mornings – I sit and sip my coffee. I look up at the blue sky, and white clouds. Everything else in my peripheral vision vanishes. The sky is telling me something, it seems. What is it trying to tell me? It’s infinite. A bird flies, then a plane passes by. I have no comprehension. Suddenly the floaters in my aging eyes obscure my view as they dance around my field of vision. My sight tries to dodge them to get a better view of what lies beyond. Yet I’m drawn to it. I’m at peace.

I lower my gaze to the pool in front of me. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to focus on the pool. I see the blue sky and the white clouds reflected. They are below my feet now. The same bird flies, this time below my feet. There’s some flotilla on the pool that slightly obscures my view of the reflected sky and the clouds. The floaters in my aging eyes appear again to obscure my view as they dance around my field of vision. My sight tries to dodge them to get a better view of what lies beyond. Yet I’m drawn to it. I’m at peace.

During the day – I’m at my desk, working away tirelessly. The voices of people on the phone and video calls tire me. Other people weave in and out of my day, garnishing it with sprinkles of love, laughter, sorrow, anger, and hate. I take a few minutes and go back to my red Adirondack chair. I look up at the blue sky, and white clouds. Everything else in my peripheral vision vanishes. The noise in my head dies down. I hear my breath—in and out, in and out. I can feel my feet on the ground. I feel safe, I feel peace. Yet my love for life propels me forward.

Nights – I sit and sip my red wine. I look up at the dark sky, cloudless. Everything else in my peripheral vision vanishes. The stars twinkle. I say hello to Venus in the western sky. The Orion constellation greets me from afar. A meteor flies past. Then a plane passes by, winding its way through the night sky guided by landing lights. Suddenly the floaters in my aging eyes obscure my view as they dance around my field of vision. My sight tries to dodge them to get a better view of what lies beyond. Yet I’m drawn to it. I’m at peace.

The sky is telling me something, it seems. What is it trying to tell me? It’s infinite. I have no comprehension. All I know is that I feel at peace.

I’m drawn to my red Adirondack chair daily. It’s my seat to an inward journey as I gaze outwardly at the sky.