Since moving we have been adjusting, trying to find our rhythm again, new and different from before, one that matches this place and the changes with have had. The pulse of life is different, finding structure from the roar of the traffic which ebbs and flows in long tidal movements peaking twice a day during rush hour. The air hangs heavier with lingering moisture in the air, and it is relatively warm compared to the high mountain desert, wind swept and sparse with temps dipping to -26 that we left behind. We joined masses of humanity in Houston area, Texas where subtropical plant life and warm rains greeted us. Incorporation of these and many more changes is happening slowly and deliberately. With the geographical shift that took place I am working to unearth a shift in myself one where I can create new patterns of thinking. I found a yoga studio and I am working to make space for Joy in my life. It isn’t about, finding or seeking joy but rather choosing to experience it, to allow good moments to be enough and to lace these together to fabricate a joyous outlook on life.
Week mornings happen early (5am) when darkness still clings, yet the roar of traffic begins its climb to its first peak. In the darkness I breathe a rare moment where both children still sleep. My body slips into yoga poses that are becoming familiar again to me working towards finding balance, my left leg shaking, and my weak core collapsing. I am finding new patterns in my body, and I can feel strength growing slowly – its exciting.
Saturday I load Henry into the car to join me at the farmers market. I can remember joining my own mother on Saturdays at the farmers market, I remember some of the people there two – the Carrot Guy, big long bushy beard and large hands cracked from the soil. The Egg Lady, whispery and tall a gentle complexion and quite voice, of course there were others too. Now Henry and I buy fresh pecans, he picks them out of the shell, juicy slices of watermelon, we buy potatoes and green beans, eggs and delicate salad, purple and green mustard greens to sauté in the morning with an egg or to chop for a frittata latter this week. Strawberries, still verging on ripeness but nonetheless delicious find their way to our bag too. I feel rich. This fresh food creates the backbone of our meals, that bring us together as a family in the evenings around low light and candles to celebrate nothing more then our lives in their rawness and imperfection.
Sundays I find myself in reverence on the yoga mat, at the new studio I have found. I am joined by half a dozen others that choose to leave their cell phones outside and come to their mat for an hour of practice. We move through the moon sequence a beautiful and gentle arrangement of moves – and while it is gentle I am reduced to tears as I struggle to move my body. Poses that used to come easily now do not, my body is out of practice, my core weak, my hips off balance and I keep telling myself that its ok, in time things will come more easily – or they wont.
Like the opening and closing of butterfly wings we breathe in activity and out rest, and so we progress through the day and weeks. We find moments of release and quiet in the day to counter the movement, activity and noise. And somehow quietly and slowly we find our rhythm again, the balance to the days and weeks.