lose our clothes in summertime/lose ourselves to lose our minds...

I am perched like a sparrow, tired from fluttered flight, as the night air begins to cool itself over my body. In something soothing a pseudo-sister wrote to me the other day, she included these words: "Go now and be restored." In and out over the fabric of these last days, I have thought often and almost meditatively of this statement. It has become a mantra of sorts to me. And I wonder...in those pieces of time, those smoothing hours spent cooking dinner, sharing wine with my parents on their skinny porch, curled on the floor playing Scrabble with my smallest brother, crafting slow words into my journal, laying trance-like on a stretch of beach, tossing strangely in my sleep, looping the sounds Sufjan/Devenda and other such fantasy husbands incessantly through my ears---is this restoration? I think, in a veiled way it is. Yesterday, at the sun's crowning height, I slipped to a foreign space of park and fell into an infinite amount of yoga. It was just me, alone, and it was very different from what I am used to, but it was good. I felt my body shedding heaviness, shedding anger and shedding grief until there was little more than myself remaining. I felt stripped and raw and, in a way, terrified, but more than anything, I felt back to the sinewy core of myself. I think there is both paralyzing fear and a glaze of exhileration in inhabiting such a place. I am trying it on for size. Currently, it fits...though awkwardly. My instinct fights it...thrashes at it and into it, but I feel a gradual acceptance. There is only forward, and that is the direction where my gaze is locked.
Stability and freedom.
Be brilliant today, as you are.
All my heart/Bisoux.




(good lord. love.)