Coming back into my body began with breath, and then dance. I returned to nature—the religion before religion. And I returned like a refrain, raw, until I saw the patterns I traced in dirt were tired patterns of invisibility.
I was scared to be seen. I was scared of my own voice as it cut through blue winter. My throat would tightened to hold back water.
I could tell myself—in loving stillness and peace—that this was enough—to return to the physical source, the ocean as a home, the edge of the woods, all of which bordered an appetite like the raging mouth of a river.
What I found at the source—when I was under a canopy of leaves, when I was under the day star, when I set down a calcified story—I saw I could love more.
I wanted more of myself. I wanted more of my body in this life—I wanted to be ready to put one hand on my belly and the other on my heart.
This is so lovely.