I was picking broccoli rabe out in the back garden last night, trying to focus my attention on what I was doing. I just wanted to be okay with it, not feel burdened by having to cook dinner, or having pain in my wrist or having it be raining or be cold in the house or having anxiety about my wrist. I just wanted to feel good for one minute about being able to pick broccoli rabe in my own garden for my own dinner at night, selecting the smaller tender leaves, all fresh and crunchy, wet with rain. No noise, no rush, my hand cold in the wet leaves, my other hand sore and getting tired of holding the plastic harvest basket. I just wanted to hold myself in that little moment of time, expansive and alone, deep in my concerns, my aches, my griefs, my aversions, my plans.