u s e y o u r h a n d s

Lately, my life has been about rhythm. And that’s from something as simple as walking to the beat on my iPod for miles and hours at a time. Or something as complex as listening to the thrum of my heart at odd hours of the day.

I heard something the other day, someone describing music as not the notes played, but the silence between those notes. And that’s been careening around my mind for awhile. How a rhythym is made up of a repetition of silence and noise, silence and noise. Rest and work. Peace and tumult.

That’s all I have to offer on this. No conclusions or application. Just a thought in a moment of peace before the tumult.

Dear Shylo’s Hair, I love you. You are very soft and very pretty.

Dear Shylo’s Skin, Get along better with her sunblock.

Dear Shylo’s Feet, Carry her further and faster.

Dear Shylo’s Paws, Thanks for toughing it out on the bike.

Dear Shylo’s Stomach, Enough with the hummus already.

Dear Shylo, I’m very pleased with you.

Poppies

Originally uploaded by minvervah.

Sunday at the Chicago Botanic Garden. Divine.

As she swam toward the surface, Allison wondered if her experiment was to backfire. A shallow breath, a deep dive. Her survival would be due to math, not miracles. And as her lungs burned for air, she pumped and kicked up. When Allison’s head broke the surface, she gasped and sputtered for just a few seconds, then calmed. She was alive, this was a summer pool party, and she was no spectacle.