When I open the window to love, I let in more than just fresh air or a better view. There is love in the air. A love of autumn Bright, true colors shine through Surrounded by the abundance of harvest. Juicy apples and round pumpkins to delight with flavor and possibility. The aromas, the sights, the sounds of squirrels skittering and kicking up brush, a treasure in its mouth. It is survival instinct to save for a cold winter's day. I take a mental note and decide to write what I'm grateful for to reread for myself on a hard, cold day. The harvest full moon rose last night and I watched it take its usual path across the night's sky. In my mind's eye, I am looking at its face as it kisses me across the cheek. Such wisdom and stories it holds.
After morning yoga. After I’ve rearranged the furniture. I’ve cleared out space mental and physical. I welcome the movement, the sighs, the popping joints, the twists, the surprising strength. The mental games that try to take me away from the moment. When I arrive in my mind and body, I find soul full awareness. I am grateful for this body. For the time carved out just for me. There is no shame as my strong thighs hold me upright. The meanness of cultural norms in what a pose should look like what a body should look like. I honorably greet both ends of the spectrum and invite a small smile to my lips as I inhale and clear out the mental clutter once more. The morning birds are making loud short bursts even through the soft rain. They too must meet their needs and feed that hunger. It feeds my soul and theirs to find a shared delight at another glorious day to be on this earth. To occupy the same space. Breathe the same air and each feel free in our own way. Free from shame. Free from stiffness and aches. Feeling strong and in flight as I move my body just like the little birds outside my window. We may not see the sun today but we each welcome its arrival when it greets us once again.
The lives that dream beyond the window pane a glimpse into the soul but I can never surmise what is really there. I see a middle-aged woman bending over is she too old and unable to stand upright? Does she use a cane or a walker? Is she always carrying a heavy load along with a heavy heart? She is bending over to what I can’t see. I am curious about her life. Does she suffer? Did she ever feel pride and proud of her accomplishments? I can wonder and assume. I find that I transpose my feelings as if we share one heart, one life, one soul. But the story is not mine. She is bent way down and I can just see the top of her grayish hair pulled into a high bun on her head. What mysteries lay out of my sight. Now she moves. She is standing once more. Her arms are full with the warm embrace of a child that she lifts up so they can talk and see each other eye to eye. The child and the woman are smiling and the woman starts swaying a gentle dance. Is there music? Is there song? Her eyes and face are bright. She no longer seems bent over, weak and worn. She is full of life with the sweet babe who lights her soul and mine as I continue to pass on my way. A smile on my face that she is not suffering nor am I. The world is lovely and has tender moments and I’m grateful to be the silent witness of this loving magic that fills the air.