I woke this morning still tired from a week of pushing my limits, woke to socializing before I was ready, woke from dreams that were hopeful, woke with questions on my mind. Distracted. Off-kilter.
I have an ability to sense gray days before I’ve opened curtains, before I’ve seen the sky. Even in a completely darkened room, first thing in the morning, I know if the sun will be out or not. Today was more gray than sun.
I dragged myself out for a walk, finally, begrudgingly, after friends left. I felt heavy, melancholy, alone. I watched a flock of geese fly overhead, wishing I could join them in their journey south.
I returned, relieved to be done, a little leftover pain. Made some tea, sank into a chair, and watched the wind.
I drank the tea. I read, I wrote.
A friend sent a text; we shared a laugh, from separate states.
I rested, really rested.
Moments from my week floated through my drowsy mind: laughter and stories, worries exchanged, expertise shared, a cleansing bonfire, outdoor eating, honeybees and chickens, revelations confided.
As the dusk headed into night, as outlines were fading into thick, black air, I had an impulse. I walked out again.
I walked to plans, to hopes, to a new week starting. I walked to thoughts of people I treasure. I walked to ideas spinning.
I walked faster, further, without trying.
Geese flew again, more of them, unseen in the darkness, their goofy calls so clear and loud as they passed by: telling jokes, giving directions, sharing the day’s news, navigating fields. They made me smile, their exuberant goose-ness filling my ears, propelling my feet, sending me home.
This is October. A midpoint, a transition. Melancholy in the morning, honking geese in the evening. Slowing down, settling in. Gray skies, invigorating breeze.
Body, mind, emotions, and spirit aren’t separate things. I know this – I even teach this. And I relearn it again and again.