Tonight, in yoga, I asked myself: “What is my body trying to teach me? What has it already taught me, here, in these rooms, on this mat? What have I learned from you?” I kept going with the class, reflecting on those questions as I moved from one pose to the next, my center strong, my balance holding firm, my body moving through the air as through water. That is one of my favorite feelings – my body holding itself, moving with grace and precision and control into exactly the next right place. To know when and where to hold, to let go, to move. To feel safe and in control. To know that I can trust my body to take me where I need to go. To be present with myself, taking instruction from outside and integrating it completely with my deepest inner knowing. And when that happens, I flow.

And then it comes to me “My body has taught me that when I am present with myself, when I go inside and pay attention, when I listen for and to that still small voice inside, it is there. Not only is it t…

"How to Love Someone Who is Broken" by Nikita Gill


"Believe more deeply. Hold you face to the light, even if for the moment you do not see." - Bill Wilson


Mary Oliver, from "Upstream"

"The most regretful people on earth are those who felt the call to creative work, who felt their own creative power restive and uprising, and gave to it neither power nor time.”   ― Mary Oliver, Upstream: Selected Essays

Prayer, by Marie Howe

Every day I want to speak with you. And every day something more important calls for my attention—the drugstore, the beauty products, the luggage I need to buy for the trip. Even now I can hardly sit here among the falling piles of paper and clothing, the garbage trucks outside already screeching and banging. The mystics say you are as close as my own breath. Why do I flee from you? My days and nights pour through me like complaints and become a story I forgot to tell. Help me. Even as I write these words I am planning to rise from the chair as soon as I finish this sentence.

The Gate by Marie Howe

I had no idea that the gate I would step through
to finally enter this world

would be the space my brother's body made. He was
a little taller than me: a young man

but grown, himself by then,
done at twenty-eight, having folded every sheet,

rinsed every glass he would ever rinse under the cold
and running water.

This is what you have been waiting for, he used to say to me.
And I'd say, What?

And he'd say, This—holding up my cheese and mustard sandwich.
And I'd say, What?
And he'd say, This, sort of looking around.


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From "The Meadow," by Marie Howe

...My love, this might be
all we know of forgiveness, this small time when you can forget 
what you are. There will come a day when the meadow will think  suddenly, water, root, blossom, through no fault of its own,  and the horses will lie down in daisies and clover. Bedeviled,  human, your plight, in waking, is to choose from the words 
that even now sleep on your tongue, and to know that tangled  among them and terribly new is the sentence that could change your life.


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