I had company this past weekend. Bernie’s daughter, Alisa, and grandson, Milo, arrived. I’d seen them last spring at their home in Maryland, and now they flew here.

It wasn’t till I heard from Alisa how visits here evoke her dad so much—she came here frequently to help take care of him after his stroke or just hang out—that it hit me how mundane all that has become for me. I’m accustomed to the drawing of him that hangs over the desk in my office, which used to be his office. I’m accustomed to his photo on the memorial altar that carries photos of others who’ve died. I’m accustomed to seeing him lean over Jeff Bridges at the guitar in his 70th birthday party, a large, already-fading photo in the bedroom.

There were lots more photos that I’ve given away over the years. There are also the two chairs in back in which he sat, either with me or someone else, looking out towards the trees and hilltops without a computer in front of him or a cigar in his mouth. I keep them there long after he left, as I keep a couple of bereavement cards on an altar upstairs, one copying the artwork on our book, Bearing Witness, showing the Buddha’s feet on the earth, which I had loved the first time our editor, Toinette Lippe at Random House, showed it to us, and the other with a rendering of the Tree of Life.

All these had become mundane to me. And then I reflected on that word, mundane, and realized that of course they’ve become mundane, they’re part of my daily life. They’ve joined the things of the house that I don’t look at too much now, though they evoked lots of feelings earlier. They’ve joined the small American flag leaning against the wall on the credenza in the office that I held up during the second No Kings rally, after participating in the first and noticing with shock that there were Palestinian and rainbow flags but not one American flag signifying national unity of any kind. They’ve joined the flower calendar Lori gave me for the new year, the August page showing blue and purple primroses.

These have been part of my life for a long time, and you might say that when I cease to pay attention to them it shows exactly that, a lack of attention, maybe a lack of appreciation. I prefer to think of it as things that have become an integral part of me and me of them, a package deal so to speak. When I die, some things of mine may mean a great deal to someone. At first, they’ll think of me when they see them, and then they, too, will get folded into that person’s home and life. When that happens seamlessly, we will be joined regardless of who survives whom.

That’s what is happening to me vis-à-vis Bernie. He would never wish for me to perpetually carry his name on my lips with tears and lamentation; I think of that essence wafting through the day lilies and apple trees, through the smoke of someone else’s cigar, kissing the sheets on the laundry lines till they wave back, going on to the next house and the one after that, all the way east to join the wind and spray of the ocean.

Late yesterday afternoon, after returning from the airport where I’d taken my family and feeding Aussie, I lay back on the sofa for a short while and looked out the window. Cleaning up, checking emails, and other small labors were ahead of me.

In the airport I’d noticed heavy gray storm clouds and wondered whether I’d have to drive home in a pouring rain and even thunderstorms. But now the clouds were as white and light as whipped cream, and they hurried north, perhaps driven by the wind I’d encountered further south, and they came in all forms and sizes against the canvas of a blue sky. A teardrop cloud passed, followed by a question mark, followed by a cat, then a balloon, then a crescent moon. I wasn’t meditating, I was barely paying attention, at least not in the way I think of it, just a relaxed contemplation of clouds passing without disturbing the sky.

It hit me then how wonderful it was to have space and activity intertwined. At times I feel like doing what I do becomes routine, even a bit stultifying. Over the past few years people have said: “At this time in your life you should only do the things you enjoy. Before doing anything, ask yourself if this is something you get joy in, otherwise don’t do it.” It was very sound advice.

“But your routine isn’t stultifying,” a voice inside insists. “You are doing just what you want.”

And that’s exactly right. No one is putting a gun to my head insisting that I write this blog post. No one insisted I write a play, or else. I sit, read, and study out of my own choosing. I used to call it commitment, but I don’t any longer; it’s clear that they make me happy and provide a deep sense of contentment. So, when people tell me that I should only do what I enjoy, I can pretty honestly say that that’s exactly what I do.

But do anything on a day-to-day basis and it could become routine, even stale, regardless of how excited you were at the inception and how challenging it continues to be.

What I’ve been learning from Alisa and others is that it’s not so much about what you do, but rather how you do it. When I feel myself falling into some kind of rut, can I lean back against my chair and look aimlessly around, giving my eyes a rest? Can I walk around the back yard and look at the Japanese anemones from all sides, not just the yellow center but also the petals that bleach from purple to light pink and even white? The red berries now blooming from a honeysuckle bush?

Can I take Aussie out for a late walk even though the day is ending and I still have work to do, only the setting sun sends a blazing orange light through the trees? In taking the clothes off the laundry lines after they’ve dried, can I pause to feel the lightness of a silk blouse or the warm wool of a blue Indian blanket we received from Lakota friends?

Can I create more space inside the things I already do, rather than add it as some new endeavor? Can I drive slower? Can I take in not just the hummingbird at the feeder, but also the approaching end of its season here (it’ll leave by the second week of September), take some time to hum back a goodbye and See you next May?

How would it be to reclaim more aspects of my being rather than relying only on the conscious, thinking part? Suspend my thinking and look lazily around, watch life bring all kinds of things to my attention and then take them away, like the clouds yesterday? Listen to the sounds that permeate the silence all around me.

Milo, accustomed to suburban living, asked for the windows to be shut because the whistle of the crickets, the hissing of cicadas, and the loud rasping of the katydids disturbed him, even as he exclaimed over how quiet it was where his Grandma Eve lives. I didn’t tell him they’re orgiastically reproducing, I just said it’s quiet, but never silent, not even in the dead of winter.

How do I relax and contemplate in the middle of everything? How do I play? When I look, listen, and touch deeply enough, I can really get what my friend, Roshi Robert Althouse, was referring to when he wrote: “Space can be seen to be joining things instead of separating them.”

Many, many thanks to all of you who donated to immigrant families. The summer is hinting at its mortality, school will start soon, and the end of the work of harvesting approaches. There will be clean-up work, farms will close, and fields will lie bare, letting nature do its work. And part of that is that members of the species of homo sapiens help each other at the approach of the colder seasons. Deep love and gratitude to all of you.