I sit cross-legged in the corner of the
room, on a hand-woven yoga rug, lotus emblazoned in brilliant blue against the
ochred finish, the rough cotton fibers scratching lazily against the skin of my
exposed calves.
“Close
your eyes,”
the teacher says quietly, and with the
gentle command I sink into the cupboards of my mind, swimming in a swirling
madness of thought and frenetic movement from want to hope to breath.
Breath,
the anchor that I return to in this
overwhelming white noise.
“Breathe”,
he says, and I slowly allow my lungs to
expand, listening to the scratch of my inhale against my throat.
My belly grows, my ribs spread apart,
and my chest rises with a devious plan to consume the entirety of essence, the
universal mother.
I inch into the dark expanse within,
sinking into the muck of my own making with a cellular crawl riding upon the
gentle movement of air, the molecular exchange of aspiration from expiration,
giving light by the spoonful, by the breathful, an end with a beginning.
I am tranquility in motion.
I am the calm within the storm.
