Right Here, Right Now

Right here, right now, I am centered.
It helps to be led by a soft invitation.

My head aches.
Smoke.
Tinged sky of smoke and ashes
bronze the room.
I am safe inside.
Separated by walls and a window,
relying on conditioned air,
though I don't think it is being cleansed.

There's heaviness in my lungs,
and breathing feels tight and shallow.

Yet... centered.
I am right here, right now.

My eyelids, too, feel heavy.
Sleep has been fleeting, as adrenal
gland warn my whole system to
stay alert.

Watch. Notice. Listen. Smell.
Right here, right now, centered,
yet alert.
Alertness unfolding to the next
moment - just in case.

My mind wanders to Wednesday,
the before moments, when going
to Costco felt necessary
but heavy.
I don't like crowds or shopping,
but it was a task we committed
to take.
And we left.

The dog, alone in the house, in 
the woods, in the dry summer of
fire season.

I only left her because I knew 
Kendall was right up the road 
and could get to her,
if necessary.

When has it really been necessary?

Yes, past scares, but never more
than minor... and far away.

"I smell smoke," she said when she
called me, "can you check?"

So, check - and a photo was posted
on our town page. Evidence.
Smoke rising from that bend - I
know that bend too well!

She headed home - a
four minute drive.
And by the time she got there,
the evacuation had been ordered.
"We're leaving," texted my neighbor.

Technology let us FaceTime her.
I drove, Delaney held the phone.
A forty minute drive home 
for us. 

The cat, the dog, Dad's ashes, 
that red file with our passports and 
documents, photo albums... 
What else?!

"Callie's barking and whining at me!"
Not her behavior...Did she sense Kendall's panic, or was
she warning of things unknown?

GET OUT!

Foot to pedal - forty minutes
of forever to get there!

Breathe. Stay calm.
She's only been driving a few months -
thank God she has a car!

Right here, right now, I'm feeling 
the surges spike again.
Heart rate, once more, elevated.
More shallow breathing.

Slow, deep breath.
Right here, right now.
Fill those achy lungs,
stay centered.

We are safe. We are protected.
At least for now.
Nothing is permanent, I know,
but - for now - we are okay.
Right here, right now.

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