The heat of the sunlight these last few days: it unfurls easier breathing in me. Even as the allergens reach epic proportions, letting my body warm up in the light reminds me to slow down.

I am moving so fast, taking in so much info. Some of the info nails me right in the heart center. And I keep going. I spin and spin and spin, thinking life demands this off me.

OK, truth be told, if I sit in the warm sunlight, I remember to slow down enough to soak it in. But what stops me in my tracks: cutting my left index finger with a kitchen knife for the third time in less than a year.

The sight of my own blood gives me permission to really let life suck in a way that lets my emotions out. I can cry because I cut myself, and then I can cry because that sucks, then I can cry about what’s really bothering me. Which are the same griefs everyone has: the suffering of our kids, our siblings, our parents, our family, our friends, our acquaintances, the world. The close by and the far away. My own suffering. Your suffering. Our suffering.

When my skin gapes open and I stop the blood form gushing with gauze, I let myself be held by those who love me. They care, they do, there is no one like me. Yes, that’s a rearrangement of the sweet Tom T. Hall song: “I care, I do, there is no one like you.”

Ah, sweet mercy. Ah, left index finger, scared and strong, thank you for letting me have a few minute of deep grief. Thank you for reminding me to slow down. To slow down enough to let my youngest sleep in, and myself too. To let myself sit in the warm sun and listen to poetry on The Slowdown podcast. A small cut, now healing. The bright sun feeding my body. Slow down. It feels good to remember not everything needs to be done yesterday. The sun: it’s here today. And it feels so very good.