My spirit has been around the block. She is a tough old bitch with a pack of cigs rolled up in her sleeve. On the other hand, my body is new. How fascinating that each and every cell is filling out with newness, puffing up with each mitochondrial breath. I am getting to know this shiny self and learning to like being a being in a body again, a non-toxic body, one that isn’t trying to kill me.
It’s like searching for an echo in the mountains. I need to call out and make sure I’m still here.
I wake up. I am milking and juicing each minute, rounding out the corners, trying on the day to see how it fits.
Let me show you what I’ve learned. From there to here, it is a story about loosening your grip. You don’t need to reach from here to there and miss all that spaciousness in-between. That space is you grasping your sleepy boy’s hand in the night, when he coughs and you come to his bedside with a cool glass of water. That’s mom and her baby boy. He’s got the sweaty boy smell in his thick hair and sun burned cheeks, but he’s always baby to you. You are not reaching from here to there because here you are, and you are, and you are.
You are too.