When I blinked my eyes open this morning to drink in the first light of the day the sky had been limpid and electric blue. Stunning. Crystal clear.
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One year ago Zack, Ellie, and I were rolling along a dusty BLM road somewhere at the foot of the Eastern Sierra.
As the Jeep skipped along the hole ridden, bumpy boondock road our butts hopped and bopped around in our seats and we couldn’t help but laugh. The wholesome yet funky guitar lick of “Althea” trickled through the speakers and the spirit of the Grateful Dead echoed through space as Jerry’s voice lightly brushed the words, “nobody’s messing with you, but you”.
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I like to be reminded often that yoga is a form of living art - a creative process. It reminds me that my practice is the evolution of my own spirit, a culmination of willingness that is hitched to the end of the level of attention and care I give it. It reminds me that purpose lies within willing hands and inspiration is always beneath two grounded feet.
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I use to think it was possible to protect myself from disappointment.
When I was a young girl I looked out at the world through my crystal, hazel eyes and decided that I would be a “people pleaser” kind of person, I decided that the pain and heaviness of disappointment would have to find someone else to bog down because there was no space for it in my little world.
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The sun is setting on day 2 of 16, and rays of warm colorful sunlight are burning brightly from the west casting the shadow of my body long and large before me. A sharp feather edged mountain is rising up to my right, and a long valley is opening up to my left where the colors of the sunset are settling down in pastel purples and soft hues of blue. I stare at my shadow as I walk towards the top of the steep grassing mountain side I am climbing, the final push of today’s hiking.
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