More and more blooms appear on the trees, at the base of trees, along sidewalks and paths, in my dreams. The blossoms that cover the trees are edged with brown, the cold and wind having their way, though not in an unkind way, just in a well, this is what sometimes happens sort of way. If I were a springtime blossom, I might be bothered to have my feathers (my petals) ruffled in such a way, but the blossoms seem unconcerned, they open wide, are unabashed, discoloration be damned.

One night this week, I co-teach a yoga class. Twinkle lights, candle light, flowers, restorative yoga with massage. H moves among the students, expertly massaging muscles, inviting physical bodies to release. I move among the students to aid in adjustments-settling-comfort but, mostly, I am still and send my voice in waves across the room, inviting minds’ eyes to play, hearts to soften. The students are lovely, receptive, peaceful. H and I leave the studio after class, smiling.

And what else is there to say?
Discolored blossoms that are still the most beautiful blossoms, a practice of rest and release and softness. Mmm-hmmm, I hear myself saying, it is enough.

It is enough.

The quieter you become, the more you are able to hear.
~ Rumi ~

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4 thoughts on “enough


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