Everything is heavy and still, but on occasion a gust of wind brings the scent of water. From the lake, from the sky, from places unimaginable. This water that will soon rain down upon the entire steaming city. This water from which we are nourished, from which we are comprised, from which we were born. How old is it? Is it forever?

Jones hands me a stick.

A cold, open morning passing through us. Jones has a red lollipop in his cheek, the stem sticking out like a cigarette. All confidence and swagger he moves up the street like a gangster. He’s looking for a stick. The right stick. All gatherings of plants and bushes must be explored. He holds back the branches of one bush, “Come, Daddy, Come!” He has opened a door that I must pass through, and together we emerge into a new world, journey mystical realms, enter jungles, descend to lakes with lizards and stars. And then Jones standing there. Watching me looking back, all the branches and vines and climbing things now wrapped around him like they did not want to give him up, like he still belonged to their world and not mine. And the bottle collectors are out this morning. They scavenge in the alleys, the glass clinking in their bags like wind chimes from across water.

These are the texts messages I sent my wife in a recent conversation:

*****************************

Me: Just watered my plant.

Me: No.

Me: No, you’re wrong. The plant is doing great.

Me: I’m really going to look after it.

Me: I am going to be a money tree ninja.

Me: One hundred dollar bills are going to be growing on that fucker!

Me: And each bill will blossom into the exact change for the laundry!

Me: Really?

Me: Well, why do they call it a money tree if it doesn’t grow money?

Me: Marketing?

Me: The fuckers.

Me: Fake news is everywhere! It’s getting hard to know how to navigate this world!

Me: Oh, you think a job would help?

Me: You’d be wrong! Just like you are about my plant’s chances for survival!

Me: It’s way better than 15%!

Me: That plant has at least a 50-50 shot. Easily.

Me: I bought a spray bottle for that plant! It’s getting the five star Murray treatment!

Me: That’s what you’re worried about. Ha-ha.

Me: So very clever.

Me: But listen, not everybody needs a job in order to be fulfilled.

Me: Criminals, for instance.

Me: Oh.

Me: Yeah, I guess they do make license plates and stuff.

Me: Okay.

Me: Deer.

Me: Deer don’t have jobs. They don’t even respect the law, man!

Me: Crush the system!

Me: Look, I will eventually get a job.

Me: I will.

Me: I just need to finish the designs for my cryptozoology tarot cards and then I can open up shop and start reading fortunes!!

Me: I was told I could set up a table at Snakes and Lattes.

Me: Well, yes.

Me: I would have to pay a small rental, but that would come out of my fantasy baseball investment portfolio.

Me: Are you serious???

Me: Really???

Me: Fuck!

Me: I can’t believe somebody else already came up with the idea for cryptozoology tarot cards!

Me: Damn it!

Me: I was really looking forward to going on Dragon’s Den, too.

Me: Oh well, back to the drawing board! Fall six times, get up seven, that’s my motto.

Me: “More like fall six million times?”

Me: Good one, Petal.

Me: It’s true, you are a very funny and talented woman who doesn’t drink too much!

Me: No, I don’t know what you’re doing with me either.

Me: Really does seem an uneven match.

Me: Jones?

Me: Yeah, I think he’s around somewhere.

Me: Oh there he is! Standing up on the wobbly chair right by the window and a bunch of dangerous ledges!

Me: He’s fine, having some quality dad time!

Me: Oh you and your elite mothering!

Me: Fine!

Me: He’s down now, playing with a little brown ball on the floor.

Me: Oh.

Me: It’s actually a peeled apple.

Me: Gross.

Me: Listen I’m going to tell you something.

Me: When he hides, I ALWAYS see him.

Me: He’s just not as smart as he thinks he is.

Me: Fine.

Me: Fine. I will perpetuate the peek-a-boo myth if you insist, and throw out the dirt apple, but I am sure as hell not going back to that job at the Box Factory!

Me: Okay, see you at 5:30! xox

It was a beautiful day and he was gently tugging at the leaves and flowers of the plants that ring our backyard.

His touch was so delicate, so full of wonder, and above him the tree branches formed canopies through which the sunlight streamed. He, so small, looked up to an infinity of leaves, each one like the next, all coordinated in motion by the light wind, and then through them he’d catch glimpses of a blue ocean of sky and the sun going on forever. A bird was singing, too, the sound isolated and framed, as if directed specifically toward our son, and this conversation that was being conducted was holy. Everything seemed mystical and endless, and Jones wasn’t watching it, as I was, my mind cluttered by the names and functions of things, but he was of it, living beyond time and memory in this moment of gracious, floating beauty.

In talking to a doctor about this, it was suggested that I try Mindful Meditation as a way to help ground this impulse, the idea being that I’d learn to live more attentively in the moment and bring some stillness to my life. I should state that that I am the opposite of a Mindful person, by which I mean I barely exist in the moment, possessing an analytic mind that almost exclusively inhabits the future or past, and that slowing down and not thinking—just “being”–is virtually impossible for me.

Before the classes began, I had an orientation session. The waiting room had rugs on the wall, constantly flowing water, plants and little statues of Buddha all over the place, emitting an aggressively, “mindfully” organic ambience. The woman who walked out her office to greet me had a creepy tranquility beaming from her eyes and looked at me with unnerving sincerity. She spoke in an even, robotic voice that never varied. It was creepy, like Nurse Ratched, and it made me nervous, and the more she talked in this manner, the more anxious, almost angry, I felt myself becoming.

Her: What are you doing?

Me: (Hastily putting away my iPhone.) Not being Mindful?

Her: What would a Mindful person be doing?

Me: Experiencing the fabric of the chair I’m sitting on?

Her: That’s good Michael, now follow me.

Me: You know, the music in the waiting room surprises me.

Her: That’s interesting, Michael. What is it about the music that causes you such anxiety?

Me: Well, it doesn’t make me anxious, it was just something I noticed.

Her: (Silently staring back at me, waiting for elaboration.)

Me: With the whole Buddhist thing going on here, all the fountains and enforced serenity, I did not expect AM radio to be playing.

Her: I see. What did you expect?

Me: Maybe Brian Eno, some gentle, distant gongs, perhaps, but certainly not somebody excitedly trying to sell me cars, you know?

Her: Have you started your Happiness Jar?

Me: No, I forgot. I’ve been really busy.

Her: You haven’t been Mindful.

Me: No.

Her; I want you to think of something you’re happy for, write it down on a piece of paper and put it in your Happiness Jar when you get home, okay? Michael, tell me, what are you happy for?

Me: My iPhone.

Her: How about this blue, shining day, this day that just is, are you happy for that?

Me: (An angry sigh, and words now tense) Yes. I am happy for this blue, shining day, dammit.