I arrived home tonight to a cold, January-gorgeous sky. Clear, sharp air. Millions of stars. Beautiful and peaceful.
I heated up a big bowl of soup, got my sleeping bag, a pillow and a big piece of plastic sheeting for a ground cover. I took my soup outside and wrapped in wool, stuffed in down, I climbed into my sleeping bag to eat a late dinner. Then, warmed by my food, I snuggled down into the sleeping bag with my head on the pillow looking up at the stars. I wore my hiking boots inside the sleeping bag, which felt kind of "against the rules for being in a sleeping apparatus", like wearing shoes in bed. I wasn't cold at all, even though a 10 degree breeze gently grazed my cheeks. Fresh, outdoor air is a premium commodity in New England in January. Most of us don't get enough. I laid there looking up, playing with the focus of my eyes, seeing everything and seeing nothing. I saw a shooting star.
There's a sharp and honest truth inside a starry January night. I snuggled down deeper into my cocoon. My mind rested, my self-ness eased, I could breathe. And breathe. And breathe.