Wholeness, A Cycle
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Photos via my phone.
Returning, coming back. Recurrence. Happiness giving way to suffering. The habits I repeat. The habits I create. The things I call home. Desire, loss, renewal.
My mind has been working over these things lately. I notice what stays the same, and what has changed as springtime emerges into full bloom. Winter is gone now. When did that happen? I find myself asking it again and again, noticing the colors, the pollen, the sunlight.
Photos by me.
Today on my bike ride home, I brushed against a bush that has grown into the middle of the sidewalk. For months, the little branches have been bare and prickly and I have swerved to miss them. Now they are green with soft leaves. Evidence of change on the route I take every day.
A few weeks ago before I left town to visit my sister, I watched the sunset out the airport window, pacing the terminal as I waited for my plane. Again when I had returned, I looked out the little window in my seat to find the sun setting in the distance. I felt different, returning home after time away. But the place hadn't changed. The sunset had stayed the same.
I spend a lot of energy just learning how to let go. Sometimes I stop for a moment to look at the changes I've made, to hold my own self under the light. Growth is not easy, but the sacrifices add up to something that is so worth it I can hardly give them a name.
And so it goes -- in yoga, in my life -- learning over and over how to be OK again.
This post was inspired in part by the emotions I've felt while traveling recently. I often find wholeness in being alone in a quiet space.
I wanted to share this with you since the feelings have been very authentic, and authenticity is something I strive for here on the blog, even if that means writing about being anxious or exhausted.
I hope they inspire you to consider the deeper questions. What makes me whole? How has that changed over time? Where am I today?
Be well.
PS, a poem that's worth a few more minutes of reading, too:
The Albatross
By Kate Bass
When I know you are coming home
I put on this necklace:
glass beads on a silken thread,
a blue that used to match my eyes.
I like to think I am remembering you.
I like to think you don’t forget.
The necklace lies heavy on my skin,
it clatters when I reach down
to lift my screaming child.
I swing her, roll her in my arms until she forgets.
The beads glitter in the flicker of a TV set
as I sit her on my lap
and wish away the afternoon.
I wait until I hear a gate latch lift
the turn of key in lock.
I sit amongst toys and unwashed clothes,
I sit and she fingers the beads until you speak
in a voice that no longer seems familiar, only strange.
I turn as our child tugs at the string.
I hear a snap and a sound like falling rain.
