I remember when the sun was strong, even in winter. My breath was steaming, but the sun beamed over the mountain range into that south-facing yard, turning the mat of dead pine needles on the ground into an earthy bronze and warming me through. I spent five minutes watching a raptor slowly pinwheel under the sun, wings lit white-gold.

I have one single discipline. I take five minutes every day to see where I am. No distractions. Nothing but being where I am. I showered early, and I smelled like wood and smoke, and the coffee in my cup was fresh-roasted, and the air was crisp and my skin was warm, and the bird was just spinning around the sun slowly. It’s five minutes out of my day, but it makes every day seem longer and richer.

And I remember thinking about that very deliberately, that day. Philip Seymour Hoffman had just died. He was dead when I got into the shower. He was found while I was putting a spoon of organic turbinado sugar into my new coffee. He was 46. I turned 46 two weeks later. I need my days to be longer. Even just five minutes more.

Listening to ROSABI, Julianna Barwick.