It rained again last night. Water has made its way through the crumbles of the soil, softening them at the edges so they melt together into a thick ocean of mud. The hard edge of my boot sinks into the squish, becoming softened itself into some impossible shape; a island coastline moving through the mush.
With the rain came warmer air, a taste of what is to come. An invitation to soften my body, no longer needing to constrict against the mountain cold. I feel myself exhale, relief flooding my body as I open to the new sensations on my skin. No longer needing to hunch myself against the wind I allow my shoulders to open, slide down my spine, tug my ribcage open, and expand my lungs into the first breaths of Spring.
With the opening in my chest comes a flood of anticipation, the work of Spring, the business of preparing and planting the garden, planning and organizing the year's events. I see longer days emerging from the gloom, calling me to more hours doing, less time hibernating. I'm not ready.
I sense myself wanting to pull in again, contract back into the familiar huddle of Winter. I want to eek a few more weeks out of this season, give myself time to fully germinate, to rest a little longer.
I feel the quickening all around me, life speeding up, sap starting to run up the trees, birds returning, the tiny crocuses by the door turning their yellow heads to the Sun. I oscillate between excitement and panic.
Finding a dry spot to sit I feel into the edge between the two. In the opening there is an urge to move ahead, to grow and to do so quickly. In the contracting a desire to be still and small, to be as I am.
I follow it, letting my body curl up, my breath slowly escape until I'm empty.
And there it is...
....the inevitable impulse to breathe in, to drink in what life has to offer in this moment.
With an exhale I send it all out my body, softening back into the warmer air and the yielding ground. I remind myself that even those energetic little crocuses close their petals up in the evening, drawing in for the night.
As I walk back to photograph them I challenge myself to honor both the energy of expansion and that of contraction, to know that Creation pulses and so do I.
There will be a day, a moment, when that impulse to take the next in-breathe isn't there. I'll drift into whatever is next with no more opportunities to bring an idea out of the pure, potential into the existence of the physical realm.
So, for now, I'll keep working on it, albeit slower than in the past, hopefully with a little more discernment and grace.
How do you walk that line between movement and stillness?