A Honeysuckle Morning.

I walk into the kitchen, barefoot.

My feet collect dirt and dust, but I don’t mind.

I am happy.

The smell of honeysuckles fills the house, visiting each room in oceanic waves, parading the house like the Guest of Honor.

The window is wide open and the morning breeze is crisp, clear.

I feel safe.

A look over the shoulder and a warm smile.

A look that says, I know you.

Being known is not as scary as it seems, sometimes.

I sit at the counter and let my elbows lean in to this sacred space.

These early hours are quiet and so are my thoughts.

I feel like I am the only one awake in the whole world, besides her.

Her muscle memory comes into play, body informing the mind.

Shuffle left, pick up plates.

Shuffle right, open the oven.

Watching this dance every morning in the kitchen gives me hope for the simple.

I think of these beginnings, these fresh starts to my day, and I think of the color white.

White counter tops.

White floors with dirt tracking in from outside.

White teeth from her welcoming smile.

White refrigerator door, opening and closing with grace.

When the first word is spoken, it is like a heavy rock slamming into the calm riverbed, fish scurrying about in every direction.

Nothing but pure interruption to my calm state of mind.

It was bound to happen some time, I guess.

The white colors become tainted with brown- things get messy every once in a while.

Words spoken into blank spaces and the day officially begins.

There would always be the next quiet morning to look forward to, the next steady riverbed with fish swimming at strategic angles and deer standing nearby, overlooking the scene with the elegance of a mother checking in on her children hours after bedtime. Trees swaying, birds silently gliding over the water’s edge.

Everything stands frozen in time and no one is waiting on anything, no person or event demanding attention.

White space.

Elbows in.

Smell of honey.

The kiss of the morning breeze.

Silent.

Motionless.

Free.

The Curl

My fingers curl in wild abandon, my knuckles arched like the spine of a cat.

There is something so gentle and honest about the curling of our fingers. It reminds me of a newborn baby- her tiny, silky fingers curling around just one of our own. Her fingers touch the skin of the future. Our fingers touch the skin of the past, and together, we meet in the present moment. Together, we create connection, warmth, understanding.

The curling of our fingers reminds me of holding hands with someone you love, your fingers intertwined and spaced out so strategically with theirs. The tip of each finger meets each space between each knuckle, and you are perfectly and effortlessly centered.

And then there are the moments in life when I do the curling all on my own...

I curl my fingers around my big toe to hold myself up on one leg during yoga. I need to feel balanced, so I curl.

I curl my fingers around my steering wheel when the rain falls like rocks from a sky of deep, dark gray. Its uncontrollable, undeniable force roars against my window and I need to feel stable, so I curl.

I curl my fingers against my lips when I am thinking about next steps in life or next steps in my day. I need to feel purpose, so I curl.

I curl my fingers when I play the ukulele or the piano, playing with sounds and words, forming a puzzle with tiny bits and peculiar pieces. I need to release, so I curl.

I curl my fingers when I cry, trying to erase this far-too-public display of emotion. I need to feel normal so I curl.

I curl my fingers around my phone as I reconnect with an old friend, my breath slowing down as I listen intently. I need to feel human, so I curl.

I curl my fingers around the front of my bike, the wind kissing my face and lightening my load. I need to feel alive, so I curl.

We curl to forget.

We curl to remember.

We curl to connect.

We curl to disappear.

Whatever the reason, we curve, we fold, we bend.

We... curl.

Bystanders of Her Movement

The day moves through me.

It is as if I am a ghost-like whisper, a transparent channel that she travels through on her way to tomorrow.

I absorb her like a sponge, remembering every ounce of every special moment, every color in the sky at sunset, every smell as I drive. I collect these tiny memories like seashells buried away in the sand.

Windows down- the breeze kisses my face.

Walls down- the breeze enters my heart.

The day moves through me.

I collect, I take in.

I study her movement- her beginnings, her ends, her surprises, her habits.

The day moves through me.

I sit, I stand, I sip, I swallow, I sense, I surrender.

The day moves through me.

I fight, I find, I forget, I freeze, I fall, I… surrender.

To her sacred being, her sacred breath.

Her sacred movement within me, within all of us.

Together, we are the bystanders of her movement.

Together, we are the observers of her practice.

We Watch. 

We Listen.

We Surrender to her movement within us.

Cold Corners.

Breathing.

Breath.

Movement.

Move.

Hiccups.

Annoying.

Man.

Staring.

Water.

Swallowed.

Hiccups.

Halted.

Hiccups.

Gone.

Hiccup-less

Man.

Relieved.

Outside.

Sun.

Warmth.

Inside.

Cold.

Corner.

Outside.

Space.

Inside.

Elbows.

Resting.

Hardwood.

Heels.

Digging.

Forgetting.

Concrete.

Outside.

Birds.

Wandering.

Searching.

Inside.

People.

Wandering.

Searching.

Angles.

Forming.

Words.

Forming

Coffee.

Jitters.

Coffee.

Jitters.

Coffee.

Jitters.

Breath.

Movement.

Move.

Slowly.Strongly.Deliberately.Sporadically.

I.will.walk.with.intention.this.day.

I.will.breathe.with.intention.this.day.

I.will.rest.my.elbows.on.hard.wood.and.not.forget.to.dream.

I.will.be.kind.to.myself.this.day.

And.the.next.day.

And the next day.

And the next day.

Thoughts.

Breath.

Promises.

The Sticks in Our Hair.

Neighborhood games were the norm at Fox Run.

I would escape for hours in the hot Alabama sun with an assorted brother-sister pack, ready to chase any excitement that came our way. I remember staring at the backs of big brothers, the backs of their reddish brown heads, as I tried to catch up. The sound of the birds sang over our heads and dogs barked in the distance as if in unison to the stomping of our feet. The nearly silent whisp of our arms swayed effortlessly with the wind, rocking back and forth like the minute hand of a grandfather clock.

We would barely speak sometimes, just play.

Our curiosity was enormous, as big as the clouds.

There were foul-smelling, dark tunnels we would get lost in. In my own mind, I was escaping underground to China. My hands and knees were muddy and that’s how I knew it was a good day.

One rainy afternoon, my brother and his friend decided to turn all of the backyards into a never-ending golf course. His friend swung back fearlessly only for his club to meet the forehead of the "Neighborhood Miss Priss". Her forehead became Mount Everest in just seconds and my brother’s friend learned an important lesson that day: Always look over your shoulder before you swing a golf club.

Hide and seek was a weekly tradition, and as I played with friends four times my size and strength, I remember giving up much sooner than the others. I would sit cross-legged on the sidewalk, my chin sinking deep into the palms of my hands after long stretches of monotonous searching. “I GIVE UP” I would yell, my veins nearly exploding out of the sides of my neck.

But pride never allowed the hiders to surrender to the fight.

They would hide all day if I let them.

There was something about coming back inside after hours of play, where you just felt alive. You knew you had made all the best decisions a child could make. Your muscles were worn out from all of the running and climbing and you were out of breath until the minute just before bedtime.

The smell of the earth on your skin.

Sticks in your hair.

Dirt stuck under your fingernails for days on end.

As I get older, the rich smell of the earth can fade a little too quickly with 9-5 restrictions and excel documents to complete.

I often long for the days beneath the trees, running as fast as ever, my heels sinking into the mud and never noticing the stains seeping away at my elbows and knees.

I miss the days where the only deadline I knew was dinner, and the only alarm clock I knew was my stomach, announcing its desperate need for attention with the roar of a lion.

For All Things Good in the world-

Let us return to the days of our youth.

To the Trees, the Dirt, and the Mud.

To the tunnels to China and the sticks in our hair.

Let us return to life.

Light at the Other Side

The breath is like a tunnel.

My legs lead me further and further into the tunnel.

My thoughts lead me further and further into the breath.

My heels slip and slide into the mud of the earth, fighting to find grip.

My heart wrestles with the slick ground of my emotion, fighting to find truth.

I see the light at the other side and I refuse to turn back.

A deeper Breath, a deeper March.

Into bliss.

Into the tunnel of Life.
Peace.
Mystery.
Breath.

Too Cool for School

I am in a coffee shop that is playing strictly oldies- mostly Motown, some classic rock.
And I am loving every minute of it.

A few favorites so far include “Signed, Sealed, Delivered”, “My Girl”, and “Heard it Through the Grapevine”.

Blame it on the coffee but my left foot simply will not stop stomping to the beat and my mouth refuses to stay closed. I must sing and dance to this music. To do anything else would be inhumane and just plain silly.

Currently hidden away in a tight corner near the front door sets me in a position to see the entire room as I peer up from my laptop like a groundhog announcing its innocence and optimism inviting a new season to the earth.

One by one, people shuffle in from the cold winds and grey sky wearing long and sophisticated-looking jackets. They all seem to retrieve their wallets from their right pocket with the same swift hand gesture as smooth as whipped cream on pecan pie.

There is something about shared space with strangers that is beyond beautiful to me. We all share the same air, the same need (warm drink, food), and we all try to act like we are the only one in the room. We check our phones, we keep our eyes down robotically as the guy behind the counter announces “Americana on the bar” or “Large Latte up”.

And yet the music unites our breath and movement.

Or at least mine.