Sensory Saturdays

It’s been a while since I’ve done any  s u n   s a l u t a t i o n s  (or Tracy Anderson, for that matter); it’s just been forget the snooze and

go, go, GO!

6 a.m. wakeup call. then it’s 3 a.m.

        finally, permission to sleep.

( r e p e a t . )

It’s been a while since I’ve had a moment to just   b   r   e   a   t   h   e   .

Stretch out my legs, arch into downward dog, and stretch again on the floor. In nothing but a men’s flannel shirt—a favorite of mine—against cool, wooden planks.

It’s been a while since I’ve indulged. Did nothing. Do nothing. Be nothing, but a flannel-cloaked girl on the floor of her bedroom, vegging out on blueberry bread and banana and a good movie. Think nothing. Just being. No thinking or writing or dancing until my feet bleed.

The plan’s to wake up in rustled white sheets. Greet the sun at noon—namaste—with a gentle forward bend, and fall right back into bed.

After all, it’s been a while.

( A girl can dream though; I’ll sleep when I’m dead. )

.   .   .

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