I did my first yoga class in nine years yesterday. I have continued to feel strong in my body and safe to move. I have a confidence again in my abilities. It felt really good.
But by evening I was really sore. I heated my muscles and I iced before bed. I slept well and woke up even more sore. Tight hamstrings, leading to a tight low back, it felt like inflammation in every muscle.
I went for my morning walk expecting to feel looser while walking and moving my body. It was tough to go but I knew it would help my sore muscles. I didn’t expect the complete loss of pain that eventually washed over me. It was gradual so I don’t notice it at first. I was lulled by the gentle roll of the waves as I walked along the shore. Each wave lost its white cap as it rolled to shore and stretched as far as it could possibly go before returning to the sea leaving water pooling as the next wave rolled over towards shore. It became a sound bath. As I walked bathed in this entrancing and therapeutic sound, all the tightness and pain left my body. I had immense gratitude for nature providing the exact healing event for what I needed today.
As the day progressed, the tightness and soreness not surprisingly crept back in, reminding me it was time to take care of my body once again. I looked up at the sky earlier that day and had told myself to remember the clear vibrant blue hue. To remember the reassurance of its vast strength. To remember it holds me until I heal and feel as strong as it again.
Today my daughter joined me on my morning walk. I often go alone to have time in nature by myself to start the day, but I also love when my children or a friend walk with me. It amplifies the joy I feel in nature to share it and be together. My daughter is three. She really wanted to come. She put on footie pajamas, rain boots and a coat for the excursion. We live a 10 minute drive from this beach and she chatted happily about her friend Lucy and what they like to play. I helped her out of the car and she immediately wanted to go home. She was scared. She said “the beach is too loud and scary.” We talked about what she saw and heard and I told her that I still wanted to walk as planned. The wind was coming directly at us off the ocean. It was cold and loud. I carried her for a short time to protect her a bit from the wind. Eventually we stopped and got very low crouching in the sand with our backs to the wind. The sound faded some and it was warmer in this position. We looked at each other and began to run around until we were laughing. When we started to walk back to the car she walked on her own looking for treasure as we went and choosing her own stride and movement and pace. Her hair whipped in her face over and over but it did not hide her somehow. I could see her clearly. This strong, joyful, adventurous soul who needs both support and protection and freedom to move as she wants. The ocean and wind were loud and powerful today. My daughter reminds me of the beach where nature gets to change and express itself freely day to day. Its beauty never dimmed and its life sustaining force always present.
I recently returned from a bioenergetic analysis retreat in Essex, MA. I went to find connection with other people and support my body that has been feeling very stuck. I found connection both with others and myself. It feels like a profound stillness and love. An awareness and joy in how every movement connects to another part of my body. It’s fluid and its strength and it’s joyful. A vital energy charge when humans come together fully available fully present. And I connected with parts of myself that accompany me through my life. The parts that didn’t integrate at the time; that didn’t get all the support they needed at the time. I saw myself in a he hospital bed giving birth to my son all alone. I felt the deep sadness of not having people who wanted to be with me, fear of not knowing what to do despite all the books, classes, and hypnobirthing I practiced, and anger at my powerlessness of that moment in my life. I felt vulnerable, exposed, weak, and so scared. Within my group, I was able to feel, be witnessed and be supported with what I need to heal. I was midwifed through my grief for what I lost. The ability to bear down and use my strength to birth my son. To be connected to my core and him. I was supported by the weight of another to bear down, feel my legs, my bottom, my core, give voice to the pain, the joy, and finally the profound sense of pride and gratification of completing something I felt was taken from me. Something I didn’t know how to do alone. Every step I’ve taken since the conference has been strong, engaged, joyful.
A reminder that the earth is available to me any moment I look for it. Its strength, its resilience, its beauty, its understanding. The firmness offers support, the wind offers clearing, the sun offers nourishment, the ocean offers renewal, the clouds offer softness and protection, the ridges in the sand offer an opportunity to slow down, The light and dark show the acceptance of the range of emotions present in human life.
Spring, misting rain, white crocuses And a thick carpet of green grass A rabbit with grey hair and a white cottontail Crouching not far from me across the grass I was sure if I touched the rabbit’s fur It would feel as soft as my beautiful boy’s hair In the rare moments he lets me linger there Inhaling the moment wistfully wondering What if we can just stay there This time, standing, I stopped and starred Caught in the same thought What if we can just stay here Just stay here and stare
I wanted to share this poem and I would love to hear feedback if you want to share with me. I don’t have much experience with poetry, but I keep trying to learn and write poetry because I love how it allows me to express my experiences, values, and emotions, and feel connected to myself and others. That universal human experience kind of connection. The feeling of being whole, grounded, and timeless in the universe. I would love to hear what you love about poetry or what it means in your life too.
For a little background, I wrote this poem when my son was two. In some ways my life isn’t too much different now than it was then. My son is a little older and I have a second child now, but I think it was a moment in time that I was experiencing a shift in myself and my inner world.
We were taking a walk, like we did most days in our neighborhood that spring. That day we were clad in rain boots and rain jackets watching the storm drains with rushing waterfalls, finding small rocks to throw in and hear the kerplunck each time the rock hit the water (thank you DPW workers for cleaning those out from time to time), exploring the small “rivers” that formed in the dirt road from rain over night, and splashing in puddles we found. We had stopped in the neighbors yard next door to admire some of the flowers, green grass, and bunnies there. I wrote this poem in a little notebook that was in my pocket, while my son was engrossed in watching a bunny eating grass a few feet away.
I’m not sure if this poem is done or not. I am not sure if I want to make it into a certain form of poem. I keep coming back to it and trying new things, but this is its original form. I will let you know if I find a way to recreate this poem that feels finished to me in the future!
I noticed the ducks close to the beach on one of my favorite winter walks. The ocean was quiet, calm, its hue a deep sparkling blue. The sun was bright, and there were no clouds in the sky. The air was still and cold. In the stillness, the cold was not rough. It touched my face with a gentleness that eased my skin to adjust. My body immediately relaxed on a long breath, and my muscles let go of the tension they held.
I skipped down the steps to the beach with a renewed energy and the thought of a few moments of peace. I was excited to stretch out and I took longer strides down the beach. I felt fixated by a group of ducks gliding near the water’s edge. I got close and had to hop back a few steps because the waves came in fast.
Four or five ducks also got a little too close to the incoming tide because they got caught by a wave rolling into shore. It was brief, they all jumped at the same time to the back of the wave and swam away from the tugging tide. Once they were clear of the wave, they shook their tales in unison to discharge the event. Then they moved on and rejoined their flock.
The ducks moved gingerly as a group, I noticed how they stayed together a few feet apart. There was about a dozen in the flock and twice while I watched, a few split off. They did not go far from the group. They seemed to separate to talk or explore, and then seamlessly they returned to the flock.
The flock reminded me of my family that gathered and grew, sometimes breaking off to talk or the children to play, but always coming back together. Milling about each other leisurely content, it was where they belonged. I belonged too. There was a feeling of safety, protection and belonging from the outside world. And isn’t that what we all want, a place to belong?
I stepped inside the red shingled building and heard the jingle of the door as it closed behind me. I was met with the familiar rush of warm air, the smell of chocolate, and age. It smelled a little old, the way my grandmother’s house did. Like the rugs hadn’t been changed in 60 years. Clean, well kept, and old.
I moved further inside, took my plastic number from a hook, and started to wander around the room, happy to have some time before my number was called to enjoy looking at all the different chocolates. There were chocolate gold coins that I couldn’t resist getting for my children’s stockings, and some chocolate bark with sea salt for my husband. Even though that wasn’t part of the original plan, it made me smile, and I felt happy to surprise them. I listened as customers talked to each other, old friends asking about each other’s families and holiday plans.
My turn came up and the woman who has served me since the first time I came in 30 years ago, smiled and asked me what I would like. I replied with my usual Christmas order; “a half pound of dark chocolate orange creams and a half pound box of chocolate, chocolate, walnut, and Panucci fudge.” She nodded her head, reached for the boxes, wove through customers, and carried out her job with a calm demeanor despite the busyness of the day. I stood next to her while she put the pieces of fudge neatly in a box. I asked her to add one piece of Panucci for me and she looked up with a small smile and crinkled eyes and asked, “just one?” I laughed, returned her smile with a big one of my own, and said, “no I’ll have two, thank you.”
I followed her to the counter where she wrote a list of the prices of my candy with a piece of paper and a pen, added them up the same way I learned to do addition in elementary school. She told me the total and I handed her my credit card. As I waited for my receipt, I looked up and saw a sign that read, 95 years in business. My thoughts were interrupted by the woman handing me my credit card and saying thank you. I said, “thank you and merry Christmas,” turned around and walked toward the door. The candy house was not a place to linger four days before Christmas, so I picked my way through the customers and I heard “number 31” called behind me.
When I reached the door, I turned back around for a moment and looked at the sign. I breathed in the smell one last time. I stepped through the door to the parking lot; I did not know if this was the last time I would come here. I smiled and I had tears behind my eyes. Going to that red shingle building was like visiting my great grandmother. I remembered when she was 95. I remembered the smell, both warm, sweet, and old that enveloped me when I walked in her house. I remembered the box of fudge she would have tucked in the China cabinet out of sight, but not out of mind. I felt grateful that this building brought her back into my presence. And I felt sad that I didn’t know when it would end.
I wouldn’t know about this candy house without my great grandmother. Their fudge was one of her favorite things, and it was one of the things she shared with me when I was growing up. My great grandmother would be 136 years old if she were alive today. The thought made me feel simultaneously old and brought me right back to myself when I was 20 and my great grandmother was 95.
I bought the fudge as a Christmas gift for my mom and her two sisters, even though I don’t know if they really care to have it. I bought the fudge because I couldn’t buy it for my grandmother anymore. I bought the fudge because I hoped for some connection, some glimmer of recognition and love from my mom and my aunts. It wasn’t really about the fudge. It was about our family. So, really I bought the fudge for me; for the feelings and the memories I wanted to feel connected to, especially at Christmas.
It was 17 degrees on my morning walk today. The sea water was frozen in grooves of sand. But as I looked out at the water, a feeling of warmth came over me. The warmth of family, chosen family, and friends. The warmth stayed with me on my walk back to the car and on my drive to my office. The winter here has a way of surprising me year after year. In its freezing landscapes, subdued colors, and quiet light, it still gives healing so generously.
