I don’t write for posterity. I write for now. And as I write, now already gets old. I could turn around, contemplate my past. I could hold on to that rock in the middle of my stream. I could choose to struggle, resist the path downstream, be changed to stone. Again. But I crave more awareness. More gentleness. More self-compassion. And here it is. It’s happening. I regain my voice, my breath. I acknowledge my body. I open all my senses, I pause to take my landscape in. I release my grip, open my arms, embrace the flow and I glide along.
Just the present, big, wide and alive.
And tomorrow will be another day.