As soon as I finish today’s blog entry, I can go outdoors.
Outdoors. What a strange word. Outside of doors. Without doors. Also without a ceiling or walls. Just a carpet of green furnished with plants and trees, a wide open sky, and the glorious sun.
Simply being outdoors is a joy of gardening.
I slather on sunscreen, put on a wide-brimmed straw hat—and go out to get some sun. The rays that penetrate the screen helps my body produce Vitamin D. The rays that dodge the hat brim raise my endorphin levels—and my mood.
The breeze wakes my skin. Neurologist Oliver Sacks tells the story of a woman whose disorder removed her kinesthetic sensing. Only moving air allowed her to feel her limbs, to experience her humanity. It does the same for me.
The breeze wakes the trees to dance and whisper. The birds sing random melodies.
I notice that the gardens have changed again—without my presence or my control. The ceiling in my heart dissolves beneath the vast sky.
God is in his heaven and all is right with the world.
Outdoors. What a strange word. Outside of doors. Without doors. Also without a ceiling or walls. Just a carpet of green furnished with plants and trees, a wide open sky, and the glorious sun.
Simply being outdoors is a joy of gardening.
I slather on sunscreen, put on a wide-brimmed straw hat—and go out to get some sun. The rays that penetrate the screen helps my body produce Vitamin D. The rays that dodge the hat brim raise my endorphin levels—and my mood.
The breeze wakes my skin. Neurologist Oliver Sacks tells the story of a woman whose disorder removed her kinesthetic sensing. Only moving air allowed her to feel her limbs, to experience her humanity. It does the same for me.
The breeze wakes the trees to dance and whisper. The birds sing random melodies.
I notice that the gardens have changed again—without my presence or my control. The ceiling in my heart dissolves beneath the vast sky.
God is in his heaven and all is right with the world.
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