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  • Writer's pictureAram Mitchell

the slow onslaught of dusk

On Friday I spent the night in a lean-to on Trout Pond. There was a cheap plastic lawn chair stashed at the camp site. I hauled it down to the water’s edge and found some ground that wasn’t too spongy, sturdy enough for me to set the chair and ease my weight into it. So I sat, with my feet propped on a log, and paid heed while the light ebbed and dusk found its voice with springtime chirps and creaks.

Then back up to camp where I stoked the fire and hunkered on a slab to watch it burn down. Then, just as the stars started staring back at my searching eyes, I climbed into the shelter and crawled into my bedding and let sleep take me. My consciousness drifted to the pace set by the slow onslaught of dusk, the gradual appetite of fire, and the clear-skied commencement of starlight.

To fall asleep with such spaciousness is a gift that the circumstances of life and environment, nerves and conditions, don’t always allow. But the casual drift into pockets of stillness and ease are one part of your wild birthright as a mammal concerned with meaning. Whatever your relation to the stresses of life, I hope you find the permission and ongoing support you need to access regular occasions of rest and release.

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