I shouldn’t have to do this for attention—sequester myself in the bedroom with my laptop. But that’s precisely what I’m doing. When I’m home alone, following my day as it unfolds, I can pay attention in the proper way, reaching an almost meditative state and in fact moving in and out of formal meditation several times.

I will make my way to him the way a narrative always makes its way to the next shift in plot.

The weekends change all that. For two days, there’s a noticeable shift in energy as another person, namely my husband, moves through the house with me. Though he’s literally sharing the same space as me, we are not in the same space. That is to say he hasn’t reached a point in his life where introspection seems not only healthy but necessary.

He’s not doing anything disruptive, mind you. Our energies simply aren’t in alignment. I can feel that fact when I’m in the same room with him. Susan Zwinger, a poet and writer of place, says there are “57 or so” ways we get information into our bodies. Our senses, according to Zwinger, include electromagnetism, barometric pressure, humidity and temperature (to which, as a former Seattle dweller, I would definitely add light, or lack thereof). Zwinger challenges the writers she works with to move beyond the five conventionally recognized senses and incorporate the entire suite of senses into their lives and work.

I don’t know what I am picking up on, exactly, that has sent me into my own room today, where I can write and think and pay attention without feeling divided between where I’m currently at and where my husband’s currently at. Part of me wants to drop everything and go to him, enter into his way of being, which is largely about doing things in the world, not being in the world.

For now, I continue to sit here, staring out my window at two blooming shrubs whose genus I don’t even know. Zwinger would advise me to find out what the shrubs are, to push for specificity with regard to any element that enters my writing. As she says, you will never invite readers into your story without concrete details, ones they can relate to.

“Write for the person who has never been off the canyon,” she advises.

Zwinger also says journaling is “the mind made visible.” I don’t journal, exactly, other than keeping lists. Nothing like Zwinger’s artful Technicolor notebooks whose pages are filled with facts, drawings, watercolors, clippings and other information she calls on when she sits down to work on her books.

I do write, however. I have no idea if writing makes my mind visible, to me or anyone else. I like to think writing is a way of planting a marker, like a kairn, one that signals, “On this small and seemingly insignificant day, I was here. I took part. I belonged to the world.” Increasingly, I hope my writing also lets people in—either into my life or into some aspect of their own lives.

Now the sun is moving through the room, sneaking up on my feet. My dog sits next to me. She’s a faithful companion when I write. When I’m not writing, her new thing is running up to me from across the room, licking my ankle once, and then running away. I have no idea what that’s about. Maybe it’s her kairn, her way of noting that she’s here, she’s taking part, she belongs. Maybe it’s her way of saying a repeated thank you to me for saving her life.

At some point, I will leave my room. A feeling will stir inside me, like a little storm that passes through a small, nameless town on a summer day. Who knows which of my 57 senses will trigger the stirring. It will not only move through me, but also move me: I will rise from my desk and pull the bedroom door toward my body, just enough to see my husband sitting in a chair we call “Mr. Comfy.” He might be coding on his laptop or even asleep, his legs propped up on the oversized ottoman, Mr. Comfy leaning so far back it looks like it’s about to careen into the living room wall.

I will make my way to him the way a narrative always makes its way to the next shift in plot. I might brush my hand on his cheek, or do nothing but watch him. That’s when he will be included in my practice of attention. In that moment, we will breathe in, one shared breath, the whole world breathing with us—both the parts we can name and the parts that, at least for now, remain nameless.