I know I know, I didn’t write yesterday. No excuse really…I just didn’t do it. Honestly I’m surprised I made it that long without skipping a day. But I’m back.
I drive home with heavy eyes and sore hamstrings. The fog touches the ground, balled up into stagnant bands. I flip on my brights, they illuminate the opaque air and I slow to 25. Denser and thicker it grows. Street lights pixelate, dim, soften, fuzz. I stretch my eyes open and blink. I didn’t write today.
My brain searches for something, to stretch, and I remember how midday I was on my yoga mat, wild and flowing, expansive like an elevated view. MAX volume on the studio’s stereo, the sound penetrating my sternum and manually pumping my heart, the beat preforming CPR. Limbs, extended fingers, bent knees and arched back, full lungs, empty lungs, yoga poses mixed with swaying hips and clapping hands and head bobs. I was dancing. With. Myself. Hair down, sticking to the sweat on my neck, on my lips. Dripdrip, my mat is a Jackson Pollock painting. Handstands, cartwheels even, sway, bend, arch, gimme-a-hug arms and head flung back. Backbends for days. Throw your arms back and reach for the ground behind you, drop. The ground is there, you know it. Why are you so afraid?
I pull into the driveway, head upstairs and lay down in my bed. Windows open, my corner in the fog, in the redwoods. I slide the covers over my body, snuggle up to a pillow and keep on dreaming.