Today is humid and muggy, hiccups in my throat and lashes in my eyes.
I dozed at my desk during lunch, and read a few pages of a new novel set in Ireland, and it made me want to go back and fill my senses with Dublin and Belfast and greens squares of countryside and cold salty sea and the most marvelous shifting sun and dusky light you'll ever know.
I stared as the thunderstorm's sudden winds rocked the tree outside my second-story office and heard the hail come, fingernails tapping on the glass. I gave thanks for strong stone, though that feels so faint and false after seeing the horrors of Moore, after crying as the woman rejoiced on the flattened horizon when they pulled her sweet matted-fur dog, safe, from the rubble.
I read this article and felt released, because I've been feeling my imperfections inwardly lately, claustrophobic, my brain weaving and twisting until my thoughts are train wrecks and the beauty of the future is dotted with fear. I see others in relation to myself, without seeing them as they are, for their own graces and gifts. And I relate my everyday push-forward pull-back self to the impossible yet imagined confines of perfection - yes, confines, because maybe strength in the story, inward and outward, no matter how pieced-together or clumsy it may seem sometimes, maybe that honesty and that hope lead the way to fully free.
Take away the stone.
During spin I upped my cadence and the sweat dripped down my neck.
God, what if your love were pumping through my veins, like my blood now, beating deep and blazing?
Or... What if I simply let myself realize that it already is? Love, deep and blazing.
I sat outside with an old friend and ate a messy cheesy mushroom-y burger, topped off with a Coke float. Now, at home, the dryer is humming and the skin on my hands feels soft from lotion. My brother and I tweeted Friends quotes back and forth, "The One Where No One's Ready," our favorite. My breaths are coming deep.
It's a process.