The grip of winter lingers, hard to shake off like a knot deep between my shoulder blades. A cold discomfort in my heartspace. Breathe into it, the therapist used to tell me when I sought her help to relieve the recurring unease, her warm, magic hands melting tension away. I exhale white wintry clouds of seasonal dissatisfaction, impatient for spring. Until at last, despite the ongoing silvery traces of frost on lengthening mornings, everything in the garden tells me that the season-in-waiting has changed. My own restless impatience a marker of the sap rising within.
oh, how fervently I wish, Marchelle, that minds and hearts will follow the lines of truth and see, remember …to be conscious.
Happy Equinox to you.