Savasana

I can be tough, puff up my chest,

and say, "Your hurtful words bounce off."

I can laugh, tuck that shard of meanness 

deep into my heart, or belly, or shoulder, 

out of sight, far from the light.

But when it's quiet, dark and cold,

and I wrap my arms around myself,

I notice a prickly feeling there,

where the hurt burrowed in.

To light it up brings back the pain.

I can hide it deeper, build a shell

of hardness around it. "I'm fine!"

I shout. I stay in motion. It doesn't hurt.

I'm well protected by my strength.

So proud of that, pat my own back.

And so it goes, a hurt forgotten,

except in that place, where the sharpness waits 

and watches for a tender place to poke.

The only way to clear it is to feel it, 

pull it through, finger its pointed tip.

That hurt. My body remembers.

I shudder in savasana. Tears come.

I can't recall the words, or their source.

It's just the feeling of an ancient ache.

I fall in deeper. Movement stops.

I make a choice. With courage,

I sink inside my own tenderness.

And when the hurt passes, 

the feeling left is stronger than any

puffed chest, clenched fist or rigid jaw.

I let go and feel as though I can float 

through all the ages I've ever been.

My body time travels while I breathe.

And then the chime brings me home.

I am right now. My smile is real.

Cape Kiwanda is a lovely place for serenity, even when it's windy