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Snow Drift

Snow Drift

The wind is whipping, howling, pushing, crashing

It holds steady around 20 mph, then throws a big gust, shakes the whole yurt, pulls me from my chair to go sit by the dogs and tell them, “it’s really windy out there,” just to hear my own voice, to be sure I’m still firm inside this circle of made of saplings and canvas.

Just yesterday I wrote how important it is to be gentle with ourselves.  That’s not to say the world won’t shake us awake at times.  Lessons and change come in many forms.  Sometimes the wind will weave gently through your hair; sometimes it will blow you from your feet, upend your whole world; sometimes this is exactly what we need to learn how to open our eyes.

I feel my heart a little more with each gust that rumbles my home.  My body’s awareness piques, and suddenly I am more animal than I was yesterday, attuned to the rhythm of my breath, the strength of the wind, the pulse of my veins.

It’s all practice–I’m learning that stillness isn’t static, but rather flexible, steady, and constant.  The lesson is rushing across the landscape outside, perhaps it is the land outside: how to be still and open to the changing winds at once.