From The Floor

From where I stand.

[from-the-floor]

Healing.

A modeled, centered pause gives us unspoken permission to lay down the armor of chaos even for a moment.

And in that moment we begin to notice the pattern.

The more gently we notice, the more the pattern unravels itself.

[from-the-floor]

Intermission.

Humbly, for your gentle consideration;

What if the space between breaths, between thoughts, isn’t meant as a catapult toward your “next greatest self”?

What if that space is not about capitalizing anything.

Perhaps it’s simply a creative intermission between dances.

[from-the-floor]

Morning.

It’s so lovely here right now. No sun, but the sky is suggesting she might join us.

She’s peeking at us. 🫣

I enjoy when she visits, but the hint of her is enough.

[from-the-floor]

Flip Flops.

Arch supports in flip flops? Who am I now? I admit, they’re wildly comfortable, and even cute. So I forgive the past self who insisted on wearing high wedge flip flops that compromised the already flailing posture (of which that self had no knowledge). Wisdom peeks through in funny ways.

[from-the-floor]

Appointments.

There’s an appointment later today. Two actually, now that I think of it. I love these appointments, both of them. They’re a living testament to finally having self-compassion and taking care of my sweet soul, who didn’t deserve the years of self gaslighting she endured. Or the gaslighting others spewed, but we’ve removed ourselves from their presence.

[from-the-floor]

Morning.

Seated by the window, I can hear the rustling of the branches. The wind is still making her presence known. Air pressure is having its way with my head. The phone is silent next to me, the Frenchie is still sleeping. Coffee is good, but not stellar. I didn’t have the energy for the french press this morning.

[from-the-floor]

Water.

My water bottle is just under half full. It’s been laced with pink himalayan salt and a splash of lime juice. Heaven forbid I don’t stay hydrated enough and give my body another reason to rebel.

[from-the-floor]

The Weather.

Bare tree branches are lightly swaying. The wind from earlier has died down but not left entirely. The sky is gray, and the cool drizzle is fitting. I don’t like this weather. I don’t like how my internal landscape begins to mimic it. This feeling is too ingrained, too familiar, and I’ve tried too long to escape it.

[from-the-floor]

The Room.

The Red Sox blanket on the couch has been knocked off the back by the Frenchie who is now able to leap onto furniture.  The blanket was from a game on a day that was supposed to be warmer than it was.  The Lshape of the couch fits nicely into the corner of the sun room.  The daylight is starting to fade, but the day has been overcast and rainy, so it’s hard to tell the difference,

The Frenchie is napping on the oriental rug.  He’s sprawled on his side, with one front paw straight and the other bent, gently touching the rug.  His hind legs are crossed.  He’s not snoring yet, but that will come.

The air is kind of heavy, but that’s probably from my own energy having been in a kerfluffle for most of the day.  Emotional, crying.  The rest of the energy in the room not directly around me is light and still.  Gentle.  The TV is playing a comfort show, just to have noise on in the background.  It actually makes it easier to hone in on one thought stream and stay with it.  There are probably 11,785,904 thought streams going on at once in my mind so grabbing one and staying with it while then allowing others to integrate as needed feels tricky.