He crossed in front of me on the way to the porch, a whiskey and cigar in hand, and I thought I could resist. I could not, in fact, resist. I hustled through the last of a project and pulled on my winter boots to join him. A quick stop beneath the antlers above the bar for a sliver of Dalwhinnie, and now here I am, tap-tap-tapping on this keyboard that knows secrets and stats, stories of yesterday and today, dreams for tomorrow and the next day and the next.

(I am pulled to write, afflicted with an urge so great that it gets in the way of even the most tranquil moments. It possesses me, it lures my attention from the swish of breeze through nearly bare branches and the call of a rooster who is, quite clearly, confused on time of day. The affliction demands my attention and makes me feel itchy. I must write. I must.)

As I sat down next to him in the late afternoon sun, there was a certain crispness in the air, and at first, I found it just a touch annoying. “Should I go inside and get a blanket to cover my legs? My hands are already cold. Wait, my ears are chilling quickly, too. Do I need a hat?” And then, and then……

I settled down. I took a breath. I followed his lead, the lead of a man who fully grasps the mechanics of appreciating a moment on the porch out here in a Tennessee hollow. He *gets it.* I battle with the calm, with myself, with the need to be productive, with feeling like I’m never, ever, ever, doing enough. Stillness is so damn difficult, and I find that so damn annoying.

But here is what I decided: This feels kind of okay, actually. This bit of chill in the air is prickly, but it makes me feel alert, alive. I like that. I will get back to the rest of everything tomorrow, but for right now, I’m going to watch a neighbor’s barn cat stalking prey in the front field, listen for the crunch of deer cutting a path through the downed leaves, and sip on the warmth in this charming glass I procured at a local shop. There is beauty in this moment, top to bottom.

We should remember that. xo