I hold my breath and wait for the other shoe to drop, create disaster scenarios in my head to serve as warm up to the inevitable someday pain, develop safety preparedness plans for storms, intruders, plague. I say prayers at night before bed, in the morning when I wake, at intermittent intervals throughout my day. Keep us safe. Keep us safe. Keep us safe.
It’s so unbelievably good. Warmth, full bellies, the occasional vacation. Listening to V read or A sing. My husband walking by with a kiss and a pat. All four of us snuggled together on a Sunday morning – tickles and laughter under cool sheets. I remind Him that He never gives us more than we can handle, and I break easily.
“It could all come crashing down.”
“These things happen.”
I slip on my shoes. Lace up. Match my footfalls to the listing of calamities in my head. My brain replaces one list with another as I settle into a rhythm. Two breaths in. Two out. Run from your center. Light feet. Relaxed shoulders. Long spine. Mula Bandha. Soft face.
My doxology could go on for miles. Thank you for this step. This leg that healed. The sun that rose. The breeze. The husband getting ready for work. The kids eating breakfast and bickering as siblings should. The fog around the edges that doesn’t take hold the way it once did. The friends who bring stories and encouragement and coffee. The gentle and quiet click of knitting needles and warm dog on my toes. Thank you for this moment. This moment. This moment.
My body runs out before my thankfulness does. I am covered in sweat that has no where to go – the air already filled with damp. I use my opposite foot to pull off my shoes, pour myself a glass of water, chug. Again. Head upstairs while my thighs pop from exertion. I stand under cool water. I towel off. I get dressed. I look at my list thinking only of what there is to do. Laundry, dishes, dusting, weeding. The day to day business of living.
Thank you for this moment.