Sometimes I forget
as I scribble grades,
push a tired vacuum,
that she watches.
I scrawl a grade
across my phone,
only happen
to look down.
Two round eyes
watch patiently.
Two round cheeks
wiggle
as she sucks milk.
The phone clacks
to the table.
How did I
forget?
Worries like brambles
twist
constrict
’round your mind.
Thorns pinch
flesh
and thought
Leaves close
’round
eyes
Until you are
blind
and
dumb.
But blink.
Breathe.
Let the thoughts
wither
and look down.
A rose
nods
just within view.
It tastes
of velvet
Some balance
rock
upon
rock.
But rocks are not always on hand
when the baby cries,
when the dishes break,
when the heart bruises
black.
But
breath
is.
The white space
of the mind
can stack
breath
upon breath
upon
breath.
Where do I source my confidence? In my words or in my soul? One tends to be more stable than the other. Spring your words from your soul, rather than the other way around.
This baby of mine,
plump cheeks, rolled thighs, the strongest body you’ve ever met,
she gazes up,
eyes round blue,
eyebrows curled in serious furrow,
and she sees
it all.
Sweater, fallen bib, crinkly paper, rubber flip-flop,
and my face. Serious eyes
seeing
my face.
I carry my own
fog,
a swath
of saturation
muffling
my mind,
wicking, wet,
towards my heart.
Water for life,
now mud
on my dreams.
That which you need
can cloak your loves
when it is all
you see.
Sometimes mindfulness is simply choosing to recognize one lovely thing. Too often our mind defaults to recognize only the imperfect, the irritating, the fail.
But just one lovely thing can open your eyes back to reality.
There is a comfort to being in the middle of the journey. It’s like traveling through a dungeon, before reaching the boss. You meet people, make triumphs, find equipment–and without these, you would fail the final boss. Middles are what make us triumph at the end.
Stagnation is frightening: A messy pile that’s dug claws into your table. A perpetual sense of being late. A sigh every night as you review all the wrong things you said.
But stagnation relies on lack of movement.
Move. Something.
Your life can flow.
Contemplate your bowl. What offering are you giving your stomach? How will it thread into your veins? What will it do to nourish?
Now, contemplate your phone. What offering are you giving your mind? How will it thread into your synapses? What will it do to nourish?
Luminous Editing 