Thursday, June 16, 2011

waking up

I'm very, very far away. I've been traveling for hours. I'm not used to this.

This distance strips me of my sense of self and place and purpose but its a friendly fog. It embraces without weight. Without warping.

My legs and arms and eyelashes stretch long long longer and then they're gone. I become the road I'm on. The bits of sand stuck in the corners of my eyes. The endless breaths shunting through the shallows. I sparkle in the slow. I drift in the still, with grace pulled up to my chin.

I sleep. All night.

This has been a long time coming.

When my alarm calls for me {not a child's voice, not a child's cry} in the morning, I surface slow slow slowly -- not interested in breathing real air. I roll over and dive back in. Not yet, not yet.

When that voice finally does call, I meet the day with enough rest but this hint of regret tied heavy to the corners of my mouth. I missed the sunrise. The silence. A chance to salute the new day -- alone -- and siphon some of that soft pink from the corners of the sky.

I settle for a sprinkling of yoga across the morning -- downward dog while the kids are eating breakfast, chair pose while they are getting dressed. Which is something. But not, not, not enough.

I am all angles and edges and sometimes -- sometimes -- length. I lean against walls. I let my shoulders fall forward. But I'm still on my own two feet and always -- always -- touching the ground.

I look in the mirror, at one eye and then the other. I can't see them both at once. Filaments of orange dance in the green, around a dark, deep center. Its darker and deeper than I can even imagine.

My best self is in there somewhere and I know I've got to do some digging to unearth her. Below the surface and with bigger tools than just my fingernails.

So tonight I'll set my alarm again.

My soul -- it wants to wake up. We'll see if my body will play along.