things come home to roost
I haven't done this in some time. It seems like ages ago, in fact- years, though surely it's only been months. My clothing and H&Ks are discarded in a canvas bag at the crest of the dry part of the beach. I stand further down, stripped down to underwear and thin black tank top, and let the sunrise bring new warmth and a different breeze off the ocean, merely stand and let the sensation bathe over me, feet bare and leaving only slight impressions int he cool, damp, packed sand. A moment of communion, where I remind myself of the places I've been and the place I am in, and how at least it is still the Earth, whatever else it might be, before I lift my arms up and out to the side, and fall forward into a tucked roll and come up into a handspring.
I have been neglecting my gymnastics. It feels good to use my muscles differently. The jungle has borne the brunt of my ire and frustration, and the volcano and the quicksand and the caves, but none of them have offered up any clues to a way out. Or to the way here. Ad so I've come back to the sea.
The weekend I dreamed of home, and James, seem far away now, though the sensation of the world closed in is still potent. Putting actual distance between myself and these things, though, I do not think is the answer any longer. Floating about in useless misery is not going to make my time here more tolerable. So I go through the routine, my routine, counting off each step in my head, feeling the sand and the creeping foam of the tide where it slides into my path. Quadruple back handspring, land, roll back up, three round offs, forward pike, somersault, back up, aerial cartwheel, handspring, aerial cartwheel handspring, handspring, double back handspring, land by rounding off.
And again.
I stay still and planted, toes sinking into the sand as the sky shifts from pinkish blue to the proper blue of day, and drop my arms to drag my forearm across my forehead, leaving some trail of sand behind. I squint at the sun a moment, catching my breath, and greet the day with an imperceptible nod.
I've some things to try again, and I think I'm ready to do so.
[She's been sort of MIA but is returned in full force. Approachable, new friends, old friends, everyone!]
I have been neglecting my gymnastics. It feels good to use my muscles differently. The jungle has borne the brunt of my ire and frustration, and the volcano and the quicksand and the caves, but none of them have offered up any clues to a way out. Or to the way here. Ad so I've come back to the sea.
The weekend I dreamed of home, and James, seem far away now, though the sensation of the world closed in is still potent. Putting actual distance between myself and these things, though, I do not think is the answer any longer. Floating about in useless misery is not going to make my time here more tolerable. So I go through the routine, my routine, counting off each step in my head, feeling the sand and the creeping foam of the tide where it slides into my path. Quadruple back handspring, land, roll back up, three round offs, forward pike, somersault, back up, aerial cartwheel, handspring, aerial cartwheel handspring, handspring, double back handspring, land by rounding off.
And again.
I stay still and planted, toes sinking into the sand as the sky shifts from pinkish blue to the proper blue of day, and drop my arms to drag my forearm across my forehead, leaving some trail of sand behind. I squint at the sun a moment, catching my breath, and greet the day with an imperceptible nod.
I've some things to try again, and I think I'm ready to do so.
[She's been sort of MIA but is returned in full force. Approachable, new friends, old friends, everyone!]