(my continued adventures in homemaking)

For a moment, wiping off the kitchen ceiling fan, I was alone, present in the experience of cleaning, fully absorbed in the double task of clearing my space and clearing my mind. Yoga. Union. 

I might’ve ridden the momentum and continued on to another needy spot – for example the dining room ceiling fan – but instead I sat down to look at a screen. I was in the flow, feeling fine, until ancient history came to haunt me. When I live in my body, I move at a pace that works, but when I notice I’m happy I either freeze up or collapse. Ubiquitous analysis ensued. Was I stalling, trying to find a way to stash the experience away for later use instead of diving back into the flow? Was I worn out? Was I running away from work? Why? Would that added little bit of labor be so hard? 

Silly fears. Disappointment. Mental acrobatics. 

I watched myself in a depressed state, barely willing to move my body…and then understood why it’s so creaky. I was in my head, ruminating about my faltering instead of living and enjoying every moment I’m alive. Because honestly, wiping dust off the fan wasn’t terribly taxing, and I’d actually enjoyed both the activity and the results. 

Timidity, hiding inside of shame? There. There it is. 

Here’s an alternative: Sit for a few moments and breathe. Catch and release. Then move along. The only one judging is me. Breathe. Release some more. Grab the ladder and dust cloth.

I’m listening, not dead. Not clutching, open. 

On earth again, ready to dance.

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