Beloved Boy, beloved home, beloved husband. We sleep, we eat, we wilt in the heat. Tomorrow we set out on an adventure in search of lions and tigers and dolphins, oh my! Inside the air conditioned casinoes in Las Vegas, we'll track wild game and press our noses against the glass to see these amazing creatures up close. It is, perhaps, an imperfect way to form relationships with the other inhabitants of this planet, but for now it is the only way we have.

Penned inside our house, curtains drawn against the intense heat, we're all becoming cagey, would be pacing the floors if we had the energy. Sam tries to bounce himself around, but becomes floppy instead. He is living on green drink and mango juice with the occasional tofu dog or bite of chicken. It's just too hot to eat. But tonight we packed with joyful anticipation of our journey, how it will be, what we might see.

I never used to notice the heat because intense heat, you see, brings about an inevitable stillness. You can struggle against it all you like, but it will win you in the end. Attempt all the doing that can be done, and still you'll find it just doesn't seem important any more. I used to love how the heat drowned out the incessant doing that happened outside of this desert. But now that I live with a small person whose doing is the natural expression of the abundance of youthful energy, and for whom not doing leads to an uncomfortable sense of edginess, I see that doing has its value. And that my preference for stillness won't be enforced, heat or no.

And so we go and do what we can. Sam will be three years old in less than a week. Three years it's been since the last time I lay low under the heat and reveled in the stillness. Sometimes I miss that, but the missing passes quickly and the doing is made bearable, and even preferable by the company it keeps.