I flip the red bookmark from between the pages of my journal. Time to write.
I am not at my desk at home. I am not facing the balcony, the large palm fronds shuddering in the garden below. I have not brewed a pot of filter coffee, my morning ritual, my meditation by way of grinding beans and pouring hot water slowly, in a steady stream onto the grounds.
I am sitting in lotus position on large, flat pillows. Their colours of the earth or desaturated by months and years of sunlight. Outside it is snowing. Not winter but it is snowing. This deep in Patagonia, weather is unpredictable. Anything goes.
I find that I do not need my desk or my balcony. I do not need my garden or my coffee. Strange pillows and snow outside the window are fine as well. It is beautiful.
It is enough.
I can journal anywhere. Fill these pages, return the bookmark to its home, close the covers. I can write and wonder and I can do this anywhere. Anything goes.
I find that I yearn for less these days or perhaps I am more preoccupied with what I do have instead. The voice of a loved one, sweeter than roses; ready smiles from my favourite baristas; my usual lunch order, requiring only a nod; the comfort of a good book, read over and over again, and discovering something new every time.
This is enough.
This is plenty already. And I am grateful I glimpse this more often than not.