Remembering

Do you recall spinning until you fall, the world a dizzy ecstasy of color?

And the fragrance of the air as the bravest tulips peek their heads about the still-frozen beds?

Do you remember the groggy feeling of your mother's fingers on your back in the morning, her off-key singing weaving into dream?

The ecstasy of ripe mango, fresh-squeezed pineapple juice?

Can you remember the flakes falling gracefully as you lay in a mountain of powder, your cheeks rosy with the brisk cold?

The first note of Beethoven and the pause of time, the tears puddling in your ears?

The intimacy of hushed conversation in darkest hours of the night, the birth of new friendship?

The quiet of the mountain pines mid-winter, the majesty of untrodden snow?

Do you recall the euphoria of spontaneous dance, the wild thrum of your heart as voices raise in unison?

Can you still feel the thrill of learning and the muted exuberance of new curiosity?

Does your body remember the exhaustion of a book read to the wee hours of the morning and the despair of the last page?

We forget so much, we grow so tired. These experiences are fewer and less frequent. And yet, our humanity is here, in the moments where our soul quietly flutters and goosebumps arise. Our life is constructed of tiny moments, the gentle nudge of our intuition and the soaring of the soul. We forget to pay attention. We are too busy, we are too loud.

But still, the world whispers away ceaselessly, tirelessly, reminding us that life is beauty, companionship, and grace every bit as much as it is grief and pain and violence. The world welcomes us and beauty greets us with arms outstretched. We are here to grieve and we are here to sing. Every challenge will be met with moments of unceasing grace. And every winter will be followed with the courage of the first bud of spring. We are here to feel it all to the marrow of our bones and to remember in the darkness the intoxication of breath, the thrum of heartbeat, and the wonder of a million tiny, beautiful things.

Whipped Ricotta

The taste of whipped ricotta, jam, and lemon zest on bread baked hours before

The brilliance of the stars in their exuberance, fall leaves crunching beneath my feet

The rapture of a thick comforter as nights turn cold and snow threatens

The pre-dawn quiet when it is just the black dog and I navigating dark paths

The ecstasy of watching my children alight as their hands carve wood creations

The comfort of your voice, our joy, roots entwined 1,305 miles away

The marvel of remembering my animal body is also the ant and the distant sun

The wonder that joy should be an inheritance

Intuition

Dropping Anya at her classroom this morning the light was dim and one of her classmates peered with awe at the sky and said, "ANYA! The clouds look like a blanket!" All the surrounding adults paused, looked up, and stared with wonder. It was beautiful. And I wonder if we would have looked on our own.

One of the things I've ruminated upon since getting back from my retreat is when I stopped looking at the stars and clouds. When did I stop pausing with the natural ebb and flow of nature's cycles? When did I stop lying sprawled on my back in the grass, tracing planes with my eyes and dreaming of the worlds beyond those my eyes could conceive? There is a point where we are programmed to turn off our animal self and ignore the intuition and signals sent from our body, a body which was born in nature and will ultimately return.

So often we know a thing before our mind does, our body ignites with an understanding that is inexplicable. As we grow, we are taught to ignore that voice, one which is so organic and preternatural; it is the knowing we were gifted on our first day here. It is an adoring friend when we are young, but slowly we turn from it, forgetting that its interest is solely in the intricate unfolding of the self. It is perhaps the same instinct that had us running from the bear before it crashed out of the forest--but in our artificial world--we can ignore that intuition without physical peril.

But there are many kinds of danger infinitely more frightening than the physical. There is living a half life because you are paralyzed by fear. There is living inauthentically because you no longer trust the voice screaming that staying will mean the death of your vibrance, passion, and creative self. There is staring endlessly into a device at the cost of making eye contact with a stranger or the joy of exchanging laughter in the grocery store parking lot. There is losing the ability to play, ponder, and adventure. There is a slowly encroaching darkness of the soul, a tendency toward cynicism, fear, mistrust, and an implosion of the heart.

We are not born to wither. We are not born to find the passing clouds dull or to rush our children in haste with terse words to the next adult-programmed activity. We are not born to occupy the dark spaces of the world, our hearts like marbles in our chest, the next cocktail the only bit of a light in an increasing midnight. We are born to sing. To write poetry. To make love. To cherish the sunset and the smile of a small child grabbing her mother's hand. And on a day when the Earth is wrapped in the embrace of a cloud that looks entirely like a blanket, it is a thing meant to give us pause, so that we can marvel at the wild luck of being here at all (and especially together).