Where the mind leaves off, the heart leads

In one month, its easy to touch the profound. You land, and slightly traumatized from modern existence, you slowly let go. With breath, and yoga, but also just with space and slower pace. In a month, you slip into the intensity of it, immerse yourself, and things unstitch and release. In a month, its easy to the measure the before and after.
After two months, that which was profound, has become routine. That which was boiling just beneath the surface has escaped. The mind’s racing has slowed to island pace, and where 10 minutes meditation had felt a battle, 45 minutes now slides easily past. Resting with breath. Following sensation. Present. Responding first with Heart, now more able to quieten the mind. Harder to measure because, really, you have stopped measuring.
Until, in a moment, it catches you, and it all becomes clear. Why I’m here. The journey I’m on. And I want to kiss the earth and thank the grace that has brought to me to this time and place, where I can practice, and be taught, and learn, and sink my fingers into my being and touch, just for a second, what might be at the heart of it all.


I’m here I’m here I’m here
My feet sink into sand. The ocean rolls in. I lift my hands to the sky, lift the heart and dive forward. Stretch in the back, tightness in limbs, and breath riding through beat. Yes. I am here.
By some miracle, I am here. Months and months, to quieten the mind and expand the heart. To stretch this unused, much neglected muscle and allow it out. Allow the Heart to take back its lease on life. The mind sits back in awe. How had I forgotten my way here? How had I forgotten the beautiful path to be trodden in the wake of the Heart’s lead?
Gently, moment by moment, inching forward with insight- forgotten, ignored, re-learnt, repeated, but insight- edging me onward. Gradually unstitching. Baring witness. Softly exposing.
Here, I am asked only to be truly human.
So I stand bare and broken, and whole. In the midst of the storm. In the midst of life. Here. An outpouring of grace. Warmth and space and that sourness of tears. The moist fleshiness that comes after. And hands on hands. Touch. Then there is grace and love, and like a knot of limbs, there is no telling where the love begins, the giver and the given. Just grace.