This piece is part of the 随筆 | Zuihitsu notebook, which features original art by Satsuki Shibuya.

domestic bliss

cheesecake for breakfast, you made it yourself

cleaning in matching underwear and shoes (crocs, orange)

the only thing that makes sense to you right now is meditation

breathing into your lower back in a way that stretches the soreness 

sleeping in 73 degrees fahrenheit

shirtless outside running, rain on your bare shoulders rides the head of a storm

the perpetual piston of quad and ass lunging into runner’s high

wiping sweat off your body with a deluxe size towel (white)

familiar, classic oatmeal soaked overnight in oat milk ready in the fridge by morning

operatic singing that comes easy again—is it the lower-back breathing exercises? 

one bite of a simple vegetable, bok choy, seared in oil, finished with salt and pepper

recycling ancient bottles. the grime on them blocks out light. is it oil or butter? another life

sweeping the floors in daylight loosely but daily

the body does not have to do what the mind fantasizes doing. relieved at self-control, how did i get this cut on my finger? i feel joy using the band-aids stockpiled for years in the bathroom cabinet

the box fan on full blast at my back sings a big vortex vroom in my living room as i meditate again

two thin yoga mats make one thick yoga mat

writing will make you feel better. you live in your mind too

how does one make ketchup, i catch myself asking, and then smile at the sense of curiosity i had as a child blipping back

there was no sunset today, only blue descending into darkness on the pier, but i sat there, relieved, and felt compassion for… the sky? I thought all things have their bad days; it must be hard on earth, feeling how a storm plumes and tears across, and inside too

it brings a tomorrow feeling

rain

a day with no glass

physical exhaustion, having moved an apartment load of furniture in moist august weather where clothes can’t dry on their own

walking home on a normally busy street emptied of its day traffic, your hands with someone wonderful after asking briefly in the dark

a heartwarming email from a dear friend (one photo attached) right before you go to bed

the fast clicking of bicycle spokes pass you on 3rd avenue

long car rides to the beach

reading an old, beloved poem, especially an uncool poem, one you loved early on that you still hold secretly (saccharinely) dear

pretending to footrace a child after “will you race with me?” and losing

all your muscles sore from pressing hard against the seated machines

the last page of a poetry book brings presence, a return to the self, but newer. prose endings devastate, no returns

showering in the day, the bathroom tiles plumpen in the sunlight

the flowers today don’t look any more dead than they did yesterday

wondering whose child is in the airplane above

purchasing an article of clothing that you know you will wear for many years; and you do

a day with no sirens

a day of no bad news

a good deal ($3) on a book you’ve wanted for years

the timbre of an especially pleasant doorbell. a song that takes its time. . . . who were you even visiting?