And there were, all these many moments, like the midst of winter with leafless trees
and stark grey concrete, when loneliness felt endless and I wondered if this life had already birthed me
every good thing I was destined for. Worried I hadn’t taken enough time
to savor every good moment while it lasted. Smell of smoky southwestern fires up here in the city plains, winter air
around my cheeks, authentic in their sidewalk shuffling,
sunlight breathed in through my eyes, making its way down into my chest where its sparkling memory would lie dormant throughout the quietude of an unearthed winter. Still softly beating its silent, sustainable refrain.
It turned into a day where teaching felt holy again, 24 women in a Tribe, and instead of lamenting the fact that it was only this tribe for an hour and fifteen minutes on this day, I drank it in. Let my heart be infused by the pulsing fullness and a sacred whisper that this wouldn’t be the end. Possibility flowing as a continuation of the resurrected expansiveness that arose the night before, serpentine and subtle, as I read words and heard songs and believed down into my bones that this sojourn had so much further to go.
I noticed, bare feet moving over dark wooden floor boards, up and alongside orange yoga mats, a calm assuredness moving with me in the room. That I maybe wouldn’t have felt the competence of, if I hadn’t spent a little time away.