“notice the light”
The light in the mornings and evenings
has been gorgeous lately.
Blood orange fades into blue grey and it makes me look forward to 7am more than
“Notice the light.” One of my yoga teachers instructed this back in November,
during that weekend that turned out to be revelatory,
the weekend that pulled me out.
Somewhere in the midst of excruciating back bends I shed the pain that was gripping my shoulders, my ribcage, my belly, and my heart.
It wasn’t a physical pain.
In noticing the light – streaming white onto the flat cream tile in shapes I still remember, it fell away.
Notice the way it floods into the room. He was being literal.
But he was also being symbolic, like a good teacher is. Notice the light. Notice the good. Every day notice it no matter how fucking hard it seems.
The light has punctuated every day since then. I see it daily. Really see it. Sometimes I gasp. Standing at the top of a parking garage in 30 degrees and wind looking like a lunatic, I see it. Occasionally I cry. I don’t care how nuts that makes me seem.
Because he was right.
The choice returns. There is heartache and loss in all things. A friend calls with bad news.
Someone finds out they have cancer.
A loved one shares their pain.
I’m just giving examples – not saying any of these have happened to me. Or maybe they have happened to you.
Collapsing in the moment – that is always an option. Cursing God or the gods – so is that. It sometimes takes my breathe away – the hurt I imagine for someone else. Belly sinking, head fogging, chest gripping sort of hurt. It’s funny how the same inhalation of joy and awe can be a breath-holding, throat-seizing sort of cry. Our body goes both ways.
But grace can abound. There is still hope. I wear that like a blanket. It’s the only choice that makes sense. In this lifetime you may never find healing or reprieve, but I hope you do. I pray you do. Every morning when I inhale that orange sky, standing at the window and shaking off the sleep, I say a prayer for you, not knowing why you came back into my life or what I’m supposed to do.
But I don’t need to know.
I choose, one small moment at a time, to notice good, to crawl toward the window, and to keep coming back.