I want to meet you in the morning

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Once the realization is accepted that even between the closest human beings infinite distances continue to exist, a wonderful living side by side can grow up, if they succeed in loving the distance between them which makes it possible for each to see the other whole against the sky. – Rainer Maria Rilke

I want to wake up and not expect that your eyes will sparkle.

And even though mostly every other morning I see your eyes sparkle,

I do not want to expect that today will be like yesterday

Because this day is a new day, and

This morning is a new morning, and

I want to meet you on this morning.

I want to wake up and not know who will make the coffee.

And even though you made the coffee yesterday and the day before yesterday and every other day I can remember before the day before yesterday,

I want to not assume you’ll make the coffee. See,

I want to wake up and not anticipate the smell or the sound of the grinding.

And when I hear the grinding, I want to not expect the grinding will be in short, regular intervals.

I want to notice the difference between grinds,

And how the difference between grinds depends on the depth and the quality of the beans.

I want to meet you in the morning.

And when I meet you in the morning,

I want to see the sleep in your eyes.

I want to notice my impulse to wipe the sleep from your eyes. And then,

I want to make the conscious decision to wipe the sleep from your eyes.

And when I wipe the sleep from your eyes,

I want to not expect that you will swipe my hand away before I touch your sleep because you do this and you’ve done this every other time before.

I want to be open to the idea that this morning is a new morning and this moment is a new moment and perhaps today you will respond based on the softness of my pointer finger as opposed to your deeply engrained samskara.

When I refer to samskara, I want to not assume that you do not know what samskara is.

But if you tell me that you do not know,

I will tell you that samskara means habit pattern. And so,

I want to never stop having the courage to wipe the sleep from your eyes

And forever have faith that you will remain open and willing

When I meet you in the morning.

And when I meet you in the morning,

I want to smell your morning breath like it was the first time.

I want to not expect that you will have morning breath.

I want to not expect that you did not brush your teeth the night before even though I’ve noticed this pattern developing lately.

I want to not anticipate what you taste like when I kiss you with an open mouth. See,

I want my tongue to touch your tongue like that night under the stars or sideways on the couch, the first time (in a long time).

I want to meet you in the morning. And,

When I meet you in the morning,

I want you to tell me your dreams in great detail. See,

I want to not assume I know what your night entailed even though all night our bums were touching.

I want to remember that our minds are like skies and that much of the time, even though our bums are touching, there is vast blue between us. See,

I do not want you assume you began the moment I met you, or even the moment you were born. So,

Tell me your dreams, dear.

Where did you go?

I do not want to assume where your dreams took you:

The places you’ve been, the people you’ve encountered, the other women you’ve held in your arms. See,

I do not want to assume I am the only woman in your mind when you wake up.

And when I see another woman in your eyes, I do not want to assume that you love me any less. See,

I do not want to assume that your heart is bound.

I want to see your heart. And,

If I see your heart, I will see your heart has infinite depths.

I want to meet you (with a full heart) in the morning. And,

When I meet you (with a full heart) in the morning,

And you are not there,

I want to meet you in your absence.

I want to meet you in this space between us.

And trust that just because you are not there, it does not necessarily mean you’ve gone forever.

I want to meet you (with trust) in the morning.

And when I meet you (with trust), in the morning,

I consider the idea that,

Perhaps you just needed a trip.

Perhaps there were so many cumulous clouds in the sky, and one looked particularly delicious.

Perhaps you decided to climb on top of that one and float along with it.

Perhaps you let yourself be carried by the wild wind currents of your mind,

Not because of any elaborate story or plan but simply because

We all need rest sometimes.

And as I wait for your return,

I want to not anticipate that this absence is like the one that happened yesterday or last year.

I want to not anticipate that your return will be pleasant or unpleasant or neutral, even.

And whether your return is pleasant or unpleasant or neutral, even, I want to wrap you in my legs and arms.

When when I wrap you in my legs and arms, I want to not assume I’ll be the little spoon. See,

Maybe you’re trip was long and you need to be the wee one for awhile. And so,

I will remain equanimous to being both big spoon and little spoon,

When I meet you in the morning.

And when I wrap my legs and arms around you,

I want to feel your breath in the back of your body and the front of your body. And,

I want to observe how on the inhale, your body rises and how on the exhale, your body falls. And,

As I feel each breath, I want to be aware that each breath is a new breath.

And so,

How could I be anywhere but here.

How could I want anything but this.

I want to meet you in the morning.

I do not want to hold your hand in savasana

onehand

“Letting go is an invitation to cease clinging. It is a conscious decision to release with full acceptance into the stream of present moments as they are unfolding. To let go means to give up coercing, resisting, or struggling, in exchange for something more powerful and wholesome which comes out of allowing things to be as they are without getting caught up in your attention to or rejection of them, in the intrinsic stickiness of wanting, or liking and disliking. It’s akin to letting your palm open to unhand something you have been holding on to.” – Jon Kabat-Zinn

I do not want to hold your hand in savasana.

As much as my mind loves the idea, something in the sweat of my palm says no. But oh,

My mind wants to.

Oh yes, my mind is very excited by the idea. Oh oh, the spectacle of it.

We stay in starfishasana till we are the last two starfishes (experiential evidence of our rare breed). We stay, not because traditionally 10 minutes is required to allow your body to absorb the benefits of practice and no, not because I am particularly calm or still or peaceful even (my mind is orchestrating it all, see) simply so that every other little starfish can wake up and walk out and on their way out see us and see that I have found my starfish, and yes, yes, I am in love, this is love, and if it wasn’t for this heavenly brown skin, (perhaps the lights could be more dim) they wouldn’t even be able to tell where I end and you begin. In a packed studio of sweating starfishes, we, the rare breeds, yes, we could be the stars.

But no, this is not it.

I do not want to hold your hand in savasana.

And if I’m going to be honest, I do not think you want to hold my hand either.

I believe we’re both in agreement that the beginning feels pleasant. The gesture. The initial sensation. Your fingers graze mine, just to let me know you’re there. But after a minute or so I sense both hands getting restless. Sooner or later, you give into a dull scratch. You give into a dull scratch not because you haven’t spent 20 days in silence learning the art of observing sensation only to be seduced by every dull scratch, you give into the dull scratch because you actually just do not want to hold my hand anymore and frankly, I do not want to hold yours either. See,

I like your hand. It is a handsome hand. And

I like you near. But,

I need my space. And,

I’m much more comfortable with my palm on its own and open.

And when the studio is our bedroom and the end of class is the end of day:

I want to crawl into bed with you and close my eyelids lightly. Sometimes I find this difficult because at the end of the day my eyeballs are sore from trying to see what I want to see instead of what is actually there. My eye pillow can help. If only it had a little band to stay on when I went sideways. I need not scrunch my eyelids shut for fear of the dark. I will close my eyelids lightly and even allow a little bit of light from the nightlight my mother placed in the hallway. And I will close my eyelids lightly as I spoon you sideways. The eye pillow will fall and I will become absorbed in your breath in your backbody. As you inhale I feel this moment expand and as you exhale I feel this moment soften. And I will stay with this breath. I will stay with each inhale and each exhale as an anchor to keep me here and (even when I feel this ship sinking)

I will just be here.

I am here.

And I will release the hinge of my jaw now, lightly. And when you ask me with your virgo voice what the plan is tomorrow like you do and you’ve done every night since you were old enough to talk I will answer with a quiet smile. Because, sweet, sweet organized virgo

To be fully present today means admitting that tomorrow, I don’t really know. I don’t know.

And so I let go.

See,

To hold you in my arms today and really feel your arms today means that I cannot feel them tomorrow.

And to let go of your hand in savasana is to trust that when we wake up,

It will still be there.

I must trust that your arms and your hand and your heart will still be there.

And at the same time, I must be courageous enough to know that

Your arms and your hand and your heart might not be there.

And that’s okay.

Because we’re here.

I am here. And

This is it.

This is all there is.

"Letting Go" by Bandico

“Letting Go” by Bandico