Snow Days

The mind is seductive.  It’ll pull you in from anywhere, for any reason, at any time.  It’ll convince you that you’re not doing enough, that you’re not OK in the space that you occupy and that you should be doing something else.  The mind is sexy.  It sounds real.  It sounds true.  It even sounds reasonable.  It’ll pull you from the couch, nestled in gingerly with your fur babies and lover, igniting your inner demons to take charge and wrestle you around.

It’ll tell you that the thoughts you’re thinking, the thoughts you aren’t even acting on, are wrong.  It’ll tell you that the grace in which you were granted this morning, the grace that allowed you to let your body and mind rest for a day, is wasted.  It’ll tell you that the food you want and the food you seek is the problem, and that because you want anything at all, you are a problem.  It’ll tell you that despite the snowfall now outside and the conditioned response to hibernate and rest, you should do differently.

And that’s how yesterday went: back and forth between resting happily and allowing myself to be in the space I intended, to anxiety rich and stabbing because the voice rides me like a fucking guerilla sometimes.  So we went back outside, sans phone, sans music, sans anyone else.  Me and Bam.  We went back out with the intention to be, to move a little because the body was created to do so, and to allow.

To my surprise, I was met with an even more seductive and sexy scene: snow.  It was so quiet, so still, so magical.  It brought me back to the place I am meant to be: here, grounded, alive.  It brought me back to gratitude for having a body at all, and the ability to move it just about any way that I please.  It brought me back to a pounding proud heart, watching my little girl run around so happily and freely without the formerly torn ACL’s and sidekick by her side to encourage her. She’s been through a lot with me, and handled it better than I.  It brought me back to the truth: that none of that other shit even matters.  None of the stuff that my mind tries to convince me are bigger: the abs I should have at all of times of day and during all seasons of the year, the flatness my body should appear from every angle, regardless of its living parts, the numbers we all chase be it aesthetically with our bodies, calories on a box, sizes of clothes, sales figures at years’ end, or dollars in the bank account.

None of that shit matters.  When we’re in the ground, at the very end, and we get a snapshot of what it was like, I hope we are proud.  I hope we know we did right.  I hope we served and gave and cried and bled and sweated- not for those seductive and alluring numbers, but for our aching and swollen hearts that need our nourishing attention and care.  Not for the people that didn’t give us the space to be who we are, but for the warriors who battled by our sides and created it with us.  Not for the stuff we can’t take with us, but for the purpose and passion behind each and every pursuit.

And not for the shoulds or the could haves or the would haves, but for the magic and the stillness and the love that surely is.

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