Hearts Heavy, Lungs Full.

One week without yoga and I find myself conducting odd neck stretches and spinal twists in my tiny Ecuadorian bus seat.

Last night we witnessed the most amazing dance performance of 2 people,

1 man and 1 woman.

Both small in body, but fearless in strength and expression.

They were completely covered head-to-toe in cloud-white clothing with a third of their face from their eyes to the top of their mouths hidden behind a mesh layer.

We never locked eyes.

Their breath was perfectly in sync and the actual sound of each of their inhales and exhales was very much a part of the piece.

It was incredibly human: so authentic, believable, raw.

The kind of performance you don’t totally understand, but you don’t need to.

“Get out of your head,” art demands.

“Feel with your heart.

Experience her mystery.”

It’s funny- just one week without yoga and almost more than anything else- I miss that.

Being in a room full of that sound:

Intentional breath.

I miss having my breath be perfectly in sync with a room full of strangers.

Hearts heavy,

Lungs full.

I miss rising on the inhale,

And folding on the exhale.

So I do what I can,

This hour on a beautiful, magical bus ride through a deep sea of green.

Nearly everyone around me is asleep.

My twists get deeper.

I am having fun.

Straight to the Ground.

That time I fainted instantly in the hallway.

Hardwooden floor.

We were in Brentwood.

I woke up right away,

and my roommate was right there.

Drove me straight to the CVS Pharmacy down the road.

I felt taken care of.

I was 24.

Eating dinner like a child.

Cross-legged on the kitchen floor.

My back against the cabinet.

A podcast was playing, just four feet to my right as my phone lied on that sharp-cornered table by the back door.

“It’s too late for dinner,” I told myself.

“But the house is quiet, my body is tired and actually, quite actually, I am content," I argued back.

Some of the worst period cramps I have ever had.

(Is that becoming a regular thing for me now?)

I hated those 30 minutes.

Just waiting on time to pass.

And thinking to myself,

“What do men have to go through?”

Lying down on the grass at Shelby Park in my favorite navy blue dress at the time.

I didn’t mind getting dirty and, “Don’t worry, it’s a play dress,” I consoled.

I felt so present, so young, so alive underneath that quiet night sky, 

the sky that matched my dress.

Time stopped, and I was really falling for this guy.

When I was told over the phone that I was cheated on.

Straight to the ground.

Straight to the comfort of warm summer concrete at the top of my driveway.

My body?

Numb.

Asleep.

Broken.

And I remember not feeling surprised.

Sometimes we go straight to the ground because that’s all we know how to do.

Sometimes because we are human and our bodies are tired and our knees hurt and it's been a long day. 

And most times?

The ground is everything.

Waking Up.

She walks down the loud and festive streets.

Sounds of car engines revving up beside her.

Sounds of birds off in a distance somewhere.

The beginning of night folding over the city.

The city calls her.

Hours later, she finds herself dancing in a crowd.

Her hips tilt left and right.

A tiny uptick at each corner of her body,

Like the lift of a slow, rising smile.

The smooth, sensual thread of music starts at her feet and slithers all the way up toward her belly, warming her throat, and then up to the crown of her head.

The beat drops.

It vibrates against her chest,

And she closes her eyes.

It feels good to be a woman, she thinks to herself.

S P A C E.

So.

Much.

Space.

Mountains and mountains of space.

As the hours pass, some of that space gets smaller.

We talk more.

To each other, not just near each other.

We give (somewhat) decent eye contact,

Now and again.

We are two elevator doors,

Slowly closing in.

The pressure to “like”, even love each other seems visible.

Urgent, even.

He shares more…

His favorite places in the city.

We speak a few plans out loud.

And start to inch closer.

We take tiny, tiny steps closer.

Love can be slow sometimes.

And always risky.

Always, we are standing at the edge of getting hurt,

Again.

And I am trying so hard not to disappear.

We All Wake Up Together

When I wake up in the morning, I like to imagine that the whole world is completely still. 

As I step the ball of my foot onto the hardwood floor of my bedroom, I wake the stagnant water like a smooth, cold pebble, the kind of pebble a child would tuck away in her pocket to place front and center in her rock collection back home, or show off to her mom and friends with pride.

Lights turn on one at a time and I paint a dark house with an ounce of regret at the back of my knees and an ounce of hope that lives somewhere at the center of my chest, a good recipe for any 5AM beginning. The sound of teeth being brushed, the sometimes-painfully-loud bathroom fan, and footsteps: they are tiny and off balance as I teach myself to walk again. The aroma of coffee floats into my nostrils as a growing awareness of the anticipated happenings of this day softly announces its place. 

Meeting, 9AM. 

Two extra outfits packed, 1 for yoga, 1 for a hot summer day.

Game face, ON.

I have taken on quite a few 6AM classes during my week. This is the cause to my early rise Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. Andddd as you would imagine, some mornings are harder than others. And sometimes when it gets to Thursday, it can be hard to make that first initial step into the stagnant water beneath me. 

But the truth?

These mornings are quiet and tender and full.

They feel like they are completely mine to rest in, play in, struggle in.

They are a gift. 

And when it gets to 7:15AM on these mornings, a lot of times, I have a unique warmth and a grace that feel equivalent to that layer of extra sleep. At that point on Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, my heart is full from leading early risers into waking up their hips and shoulders and there is this humble but grand sense of unity in knowing we all wake up together.

When I get into my car after leaving my house and I merge right to dip into the interstate, it’s like jumping into a cool pool in the heat of July. The roads are calm and unintrusive, a rarity in this growing city we call Nashville. And the sunrise- she greets me there, right at that same spot every time, living within the frame of my car windshield like it’s hanging on a wall in a fancy art museum.

Have you ever collected water in the palms of your hands and watched it slowly trickle to the ground? That’s what this sunrise feels like. 

From hands to the earth floor, water falls down.

From earth walls to earth ceiling, colors rise up.

Same trickle.

Same nourishment.

I think a lot about my energy, my presence, my spirit that I bring to each day. And I want my inner light to do that: to rise softly and then disperse, calling others to rise with a rich eagerness to see what all is out there in the world for them that day.

Sometimes this happens and sometimes it doesn’t. Let’s be honest: there are some seasons where the only thing rising in me is a temper and the impatience of a 5 year old. Like if I’m in traffic or if I feel used or taken advantage of or feel that my needs are not being met at work, home, or in my relationships. Those days, I barely, barely rise. Instead of light lifting and then dispersing, all I have to give is enough light to help people see where they are going, just two feet in front of them.

You know those foggy mornings with a misty rain where you have to turn the music down in your car and lean forward to make sure you understand the shape and texture of everything moving around you so you don’t run into anything? That’s what I’m talking about.

But those seasons are important too.

Without those seasons, we do not always appreciate the light, the color of the sky greeting us at 5:15 in the morning, welcoming us to the day like a grandmother with chocolate chip cookies and milk.

And in these seasons, someone else’s light guides me.

That’s what we do.

We are there for each other.

That’s the only way to do this thing we call life.

Otherwise, we are all just robots going to work, going home, going to work, going home.

Is that all you want?