Home for a minute

and then I go back. When? I don't know - that's the question. Mom's still alert, and I want to hold her hand while she's still alert, but is that selfish? I can hold her hand when she's unconscious, just to be with her. I know she'll know I'm there. She asked when I was coming back, and I told her two days. It's now been 24 hours, and my mind is back in Bismarck. My sisters tell me not to come back yet, that there are enough people there, that they want to keep things calm, and I think, I'm the most calm one, I'm the one who keeps focused and quiet. I know, I know, you may think I talk a lot, and am a little loud, and mostly I am, I guess, but not so much right now. Now I feel like being more quiet than talking, as if it's a great effort to talk. Besides, what do we REALLY have to say that's so important?

Sean Murphy from Taos told me a story when I was down there last. He said his friend went to his dad and told him about the benefits of meditating. "It will calm your mind." "But my mind's already calm," the dad answered. The son didn't know what to say back to him - he'd never met anyone with a calm mind. But I feel it right now - that still, quiet space. It came upon me last night when I lay in bed, right after reading the first chapter of the last Harry Potter book to Bill, and before he'd fallen asleep. It was a sweet, pervasive feeling of wholeness of being, just because. I liked it. A lot. I like where I am, but it's interesting to note that I tried to watch a DVD this afternoon, and none of the players worked. So I put on a CD, and THAT didn't work. I think it's me. I hope it's not permanent, or we'll have to replace all of our electronics. So now I go walk a bit before Bill comes back from his friend's house. He needed to play with his friends - a week of Mom would drive any kid mad. Bill and Steve will stay back, while I venture westward to be with Mom and Dad. Half of my summer will be gone, but I wouldn't have changed a single thing. I love my parents.