Everything that is alive is partially growing and partially dying, always changing.
It is no secret and no surprise that I am going through some big things, and as part of that I've been staying here and there and other places -- no easy feat in a pandemic.
More than ever, I find solace in solitude, and savor the silence I am fighting hard to cultivate and live in.
After years (decades?) of swimming against a current, I surrender to the inevitable, to the peace I was seeking in the wrong places and the wrong way.
This morning -- like many mornings recently - I wake up before my alarm, before dawn, and stew in stolen hours.
I open the layers of my hotel curtains -- the thick one, the thin one, the sheer one -- revealing a mystically cloudy hazy yellow orange pink sky.
Fantastic. Everyday I do yoga sun salutations to nowhere, usually not looking at the sky, habitually not seeking the sun.
Today the sun finds me, glowing impossibly orange outside my window.
I welcome it and do my yoga poses, the first set, the second set, the third set.
The sun doesn't move, or at least it rises impossibly slowly.
I am giddy with delight to get to savor the sunrise, entranced with the red orange glow against the periwinkle sky.
I do a 4th set of poses, then a 5th set.
Sweat glows on my face, and I wonder if I have enough time to work on my lecture before class.
I check my watch. I have plenty of time to play with the lecture that goes from Treaty of Versailles to douching with Lysol. Plenty of time.
I do a 6th set of sun salutation poses, reveling in the miracle that I get to watch such a beautiful sunrise.
But it seems to me the sun is going nowhere, so I take a pause from my yoga and look harder and let go of what I think I am seeing so that I can see what is there.
It isn't the sun.
It is the red-orange half-circle glow of the Outback Steakhouse sign, lighting up the sky around I-10.
Of course it is. I laugh at myself and the world and get into the shower, wondering what else is in front of me that I can't quite see yet.