There is a place this morning I want to touch like fudge held in the hand, slightly grainy and melting, that moment before it enters the mouth screaming, “sweet,” and dissolves in an energizing whirl to mobilize insides out.
There is sadness, too, a reaching back to who I was, even as I open to who I am now. I am on the bridge at Esalen, the one that leans over the meditation hut, yurt, circle by the stream, the stream beaming down to the ocean, a space where flame and candle are one, and the place where I fell into myself like Icarus from the sky though the burning was throat not wings and the landing was light.
I twist the clear plastic wand of window blinds to see what stirs outside and let outside see what happens inside me. I open the loaf of bread, inhale the scent of slices lined up, together and separate, and take one to butter and feast. Tongue melts like caramel awaiting the swirl of one red apple, one green. This day unwinds, a loft of ease.
Jane and I spoke this morning of how much this morning time together sets the pacing and tone for our day. We like it and are happy to return to it. I believe I mentioned that at Esalen, Sharon Olds spoke of how poetry began as communal, a way to share the history and stories of the tribe, and now it is considered by most to be a bit "odd" and even counter-cultural. I consider that this morning as I feel how much it matters to me to just be able to pour onto the page, or, I realize now, computer screen. We talked at Esalen about what poetry is and might be and it can be almost anything and everything. Let your mind have grounded flight. Consider composing a poem of your own today, for fun and life.