The grief that moves her way down my spine shoots to the tips of my fingers and the tops of my toes; I hold here, in this place and welcome the slow tears as they slide down my cheeks.
The sky is blue and now the clouds are coming and I secretly hope from my view from the bed that the wind will pick up and the rain will fall and I will use this as an excuse to stay under the covers.
My bladder forces me from the safety of the nest of blankets I’ve created and begrudgingly, I start the day, moving with tenderness and care, aware of the gaping wound in the centre of my chest and it’s as if the animals sense it, too, for they are kind in their persistence to be fed.
I make a cup of tea and move back to the bed-fort, my computer in tow, for my body is a wonderland and one no longer suited to the saving of secrets; when emotion like this comes, when sadness like this seeps in around the edges of this strong heart, the only thing left to do is write it out.
Writing, as I have written already, is a medicine that runs deep and although sometimes I am stunned at what moves through the siphon there is always (mostly) a moment of relief and softening of my physical body when I allow myself to let a feeling or memory go.
As it turns out, this shifting and moving needs to happen each and every day so that what no longer serves me does not dig sticky roots deep down and stay awhile.
The day is chilly and I can feel the breeze sneak in all the open windows and instead of closing them, I bundle myself up and continue on my quest and I take two breaks to make food and by noon-thirty, I have already had two meals.
(There is this urge I think we all struggle with to desire the letting go and the enormity of the fear of doing so and food becomes medicine too, and because it’s all good things going in, and somehow I make the space safe to keep writing.)
Words pour out just as tears do and when I am done, I take a moment to close my eyes and thank God for the ability to move and breathe; I do this after every class I teach and every time I move my body on my mat but writing is akin to breathing is akin to moving and so gratitude must follow,
And for a moment, I think of all the souls that can’t do as i do, because, because,
Life can be cruel.
And the grief that spun her way around each vertebrae of my spine as I opened my eyes this morning transforms into something more: