My body moved.
My lungs drew breath in through my nostrils and along the back of my throat to make a sound like a blacksmith’s bellows stoking the furnace to keep the heat even. The movement of my body was slow and deliberate, sweeping through the air with fluid motions, knees and elbows flexing and bending and straightening and bending again.
My heart pumped rhythmically within my chest. Energy, oxygen, and blood flowed where it was needed, filled the space with what it needed to contract, expand, flex, or relax.
My body moved. My mind flowed with it. My spirit pulsed brightly within my chest and guided the body and mind to move together as one, binding them.
As my body moved a part of my mind broke free to roam the infinite wilderness. Almost without thought, without intention, without control, my mind ran through verdant fields of green, dense forests thick with pine needles and gray stone boulders, and rocky beaches where little crabs scuttled between tide pools and the surf rolled in and out over the sand.
I started to let go. And as I started to let go my mind flashed with thoughts and memories from previous lives…
Rubber-soled, canvas-clad feet pounding worn asphalt streets, heart pounding with the frivolous joy and boundless energy of youth. Slamming a wooden stick into the ground under a peach tree until it exploded into splinters, face red with misdirected and unspent rage, spittle flying through clenched, white teeth with each furious swing. A feeling of dread and unease in a room with a faded, old couch and a television screen endlessly flickering across the face of a man whose eyes are empty and unseeing, collecting cans in rows beneath his feet.
Fists clenching against the cold and the rain as a drunken scream escapes my lips, “What can I do to fix this,” while she responds, “Nothing.” Head pounding, stomach churning on another Sunday morning, practicing saying, “I don’t drink anymore,” to myself over and over again as something ancient within me begins to crack and break away. A womb of wood extending outward as a fire crackles in the hearth, delicately-picked flowers hanging on twisted twine to dry, windows framing rolling green hills, dark forests, and a twilight sky,
I thought of the people I know and the stories from previous lives that they have so graciously shared with me. Pain, torture, betrayal, cruelty, death, suffering beyond comprehension. Love, joy, discovery, wonder, beauty, and awe.
As my body and mind and spirit flowed they coalesced into a single, discreet thought; that we are all miraculous. In spite of everything we have done, that has been done to us, that has happened to us, here we are. We are here. In spite of all that pain and that trauma, here I was flowing like it was the only thing that I had ever done, like I was born to do it. In spite of all the horrible things that have happened in this cruel world of ours, we are still here to love each other, to see one another, and to thrive. To move. To flow.
What could be more miraculous than that?