What returns you to yourself?
Tonight: Cranked up the music, unrolled my mat and practiced. Then I swept my little studio, drew warm water and scrubbed it clean. Sitting here now with a plant on the sill and the June evening beyond. Photos of my children on one shelf, friends and favorite places on the bulletin board. Above me, a wire angel made by a homeless man in LA. A quote calligraphed by a friend hanging on the wall. A zafu that belonged to a former student sitting on the clean wood floor.
It’s barely a cupboard, but it’s mine. And here lives everything I need to come alive, to reconnect to the basic pulse of life.
I don’t know about you, but how easily I forget this. We’re such silly, foolish, overworked people. We can always just return – though we tell ourselves differently. Take a deep breath and settle into that which has been here all along – the pen, the brush, the song, the bath, the woods. Dang, how easy was that?