Since then, I’ve tried to look at the sky more often. While standing in my new living room, walking through humid Florida, or driving past shuttered stores and take-out restaurants, I’ll suddenly notice colors and pause for a moment. I don’t count to thirty or take ten deep breaths or anything like that. I don’t even pause, really. I keep following the car ahead of me as I glance upward through the windshield. It’s more about my background attention. A net of powerlines and traffic lights and road signs tie me in place like lashings on a ship, but beyond them, beyond the apartments and office buildings that line San Marco Boulevard, I can see open sky. The other week, it was solid blue, as bright as baptism. In the midst of that expanse, I saw a single whisp of cloud. Then I found a parking spot, sanitized my hands, and put on a mask. I returned to ceilings of lights, HVAC systems, and to-do lists.
About a month ago, someone told me he looked at the sky seven times every day. He said it calmed him down and smoothed out anxieties. It wasn’t a spiritual thing. He called it “a way to spend time with myself.”