I’m running. Not fast, but I’m running. The gravel is loose under my feet and I can feel my left ankle – the weak one – twinge a little. My chest burns and I know my face is ridiculously bright red. I want to stop, especially on those low slung country hills that seem to climb forever. But I run. There are yellow buttercups growing in clumps along the side of the road, and I pass weathered barns and rusted tractors and country homes that have stood watch by this stretch of shoreline for well over a hundred years now. Drivers who pass me wave and smile, even strangers do that here in the country. The sun warms me and the breeze cools me. Music pounds in my head, the strains of Viva La Vida giving me the perfect spirit-lift to push past the discomfort. This is not easy, but I am smiling.
This is for me.
I’m alone in my room. The window looks out over rose bushes and a white country church. If I listen closely I can hear the soft glug-glug of the frogs in the pond across the street. A summer breeze blows in through the open window, bringing with it the scent of growing things. I am naked; my body still slick with the sweat from my run. My muscles feel well used. I’ve connected my phone to a tiny set of speakers, and I let the music play. I find songs that spin the innate beat of my hips, and they begin to spiral. The rhythm lives deep in my center, right where the core of my femininity lies. I begin to move slowly as the song snakes its way inside me and I let the music take me over. I feel my muscles working, abs, legs, arms, back. I watch in the mirror, a slow smirk spreading across my face. I am a seductress, a sorcerer, my siren song sung not in words but by the movement of my body.
This is for me.
I am sitting at the computer. My skin smells like rose essential oil serum purchased at the farmers market last weekend. My hair is still wet from the blissfully hot shower. My muscles are still tingling from my run and my mind is buzzing with stories that beg to be told. To my left I hear my girls giggling in the living room, to my right there is a window that looks out on a gnarly old apple tree that my childhood self has climbed times too numerous to count. I look straight ahead, the glow of the screen holding all of my attention. I have so many words dying to be born right now. My fingers trip over themselves trying to let them all out in the limited time available. The clickety click of the keyboard sooths my already calm soul as I release some of what lives inside me. After a long hiatus, I am finally writing again.
This is for me.
I walk along the rocky beach that has known my footsteps since childhood. A light breeze blows through hair that has not seen brush or hairdryer or styling product in days. The tide is on the way in, but plenty of beach remains. My hands are full – of rocks, of brightly colored bits of beach glass, of dried up crab legs. Treasures, all of them. My girls walk along side me, all three of us – heads down – scanning the ground for more riches. An old medicine bottle protruding from the rust colored bank. A small piece of lavender pottery laying on the rocks after a trip through the sea. A jagged piece of pink colored gypsum just begging for a home. Three more things for my hands to hold. Presence, for me, is one of the hardest things. And here I am, utterly and completely in this moment, with these girls, in a place my soul knows as home.
This is for me.
I have taken a step off the roller coaster. After a relentless spring full of pushing and crashing and endless questions, I am peaceful and centered. I am breathing again. I am making choices now, not from fear or insecurities or a ceaseless drive to expand. I am holding what is sacred and mine in front of me, keeping these gifts in the forefront of my mind at all times. I chose to honor what is, what needs nurturing, what builds and sustains my heart. There are no doubts in this space, only clarity.
I don’t need all the answers just now. I have all that I need – the pounding of my feet on loose gravel, the rhythm of music spiraling my from my hips, the bliss of words flowing from my fingers, the gifts of the ocean held gently in my hands, and the clarity of what is sacred in my life.
This is for me.
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