Kiana

I’m reading Mary Oliver’s poem “Wild Geese.” To the left, outside my window, the moon is slowly waxing into glory. I look to my right and whisper little prayers from my heart. I fix my gaze on some lit purple and red candles.

“You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.”

After a little discord with the universe, I am looking inside myself for a little tenderness. I know that I have it, we all do. It’s just that, sometimes, life catches up with us and snatches what little softness we have.

“Meanwhile the world goes on.”

I dwell in the little moments of my tenderness routine—my practice, if you will. These little in-betweens are where I dance without self-contempt to Fleetwood Mac, or sing along with TLC. I’m still reading and celebrating The Waves by Virginia Woolf, slowly, because I’m nearing its end and I am not a huge fan of books ending, especially lovely ones.

I’ve been thinking of the last time I saw a sunrise, or felt a sunset’s pull. It was last year, I’m sure, and I feel bad right now just ruminating on that fact. If I can’t sleep tonight, because I like to fight with myself by drinking way too much caffeine (I know it’s bad, BUT…), I might have to go out and stare at the horizon, where the warmest, most generous ball of hot gas and combined elements sets out to rise and show itself to the world.

“Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination.” ♦