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Each day,

my practice awaits.

The ability to move freely

through time and space

is never quite the same

as it was yesterday.

Some days, I can breathe

without constraint.

Other days,

the only way to breathe

in such a way

is by curling into a ball

on the floor

smothered in the weight of blankets

and cuddled up

next to my dog.

Tears stream down my face

as though every ounce of water

in my body could find

its way out through my eyes.

There is a specific kind of mourning

that meets me here,

face-to-face,

in every wake of solitude’s embrace:

the waking out of sleep;

the waking transition when the work day ends; and

the waking moment at the end of the practice,

when the final relaxation is over

and there is no way to further delay

moving through the world

and all the interactions

that are a reminder that he’s in a different place.

On the better days, I move gracefully

through a dancing synchronicity of my body and breath.

I feel connected, humbled, loved;

reminded of his presence as though he was still a permeating living energy.

The wake of solitude inevitably returns,

As does the waking to his love.

 

 

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