I know I don't have twenty minutes, but maybe ten. Maybe five. Or just one? I know I'll be interrupted. But I'm starting to need this. Every. Day.
So I fold my legs under myself and sit on my feet. I close my eyes and exhale everything.
Still.
When I'm in this space, I rarely think about my hands. They just rest where they want to. But I've heard about the difference -- palms down means grounding. Palms up means receiving.
I seem to always need whatever gifts are floating around me so I make the conscious decision to accept them. Palms up.
The Littles play down the hall, in their castle. {This is day three of it's construction. Blankets off beds, toys and chairs rearranged to prop them up. We take it down at night to clothe the naked beds, but they resurrect it every morning.} They are anything but quiet but their laughter is what lives in my landscape.
And so I sit in the other room. A point on the periphery of so much motion, but still, at the center of things.
It really isn't long before Littlest pads into the room. Her socks are gone.
I almost cringe. I almost tighten. I almost resent. But before that taste even creeps into my mouth, she plunks herself down on my lap. Right onto my upturned hands.
A gift.
I accept it.
