I told you I am a writer. Did I tell you I am an artist?
We talked a lot about our bodies. What we were experiencing in the moment, what our bodies felt. What we were putting them through.
We must never, ever forget that the best days of our lives are not all behind us.
The losses were brutal, untimely, and sometimes lasting. The pains came in multitudes, and often. The reasons to cry seemed plentiful whilst the reasons to laugh seemed scarce.
I’m tired of stark, deathly stories about loss and grit in poorly defined post-apocalyptic worlds. I’m tired of everyone doing their best “The Road” impression writing stark sentences. That move like this. About death.
More than 1 month ago, my life changed forever in a way I never imagined. My 54-year-old awesome, outspoken, loving and beautiful mother was just diagnosed with cervical cancer – stage 3A.
Every time you step foot onto your mat, your practice will be different and your life will be different. Some days feel messy and embarrassingly imperfect while others flow seamlessly. Cultivate patience for the process.
I’ve asked myself this question countless times.
Lately, I’ve been spending my time learning truths. I mull over them, sucking on them slow like a hard candy in my mouth until the flavor runs out.
Feeling alone is one of those things that doesn’t just happen overnight.