In a recent post the wonderful Danielle LaPorte asked the question: How do you want it all to feel? One of those enduring questions that can shift consciousness to levels of bright hope, deep fear, and just flat-out confusion. But there are moments when the answer is right there–out loud, just before waking. A clear, absolute statement. Stronger than a message, a full synapse-snapping statement. It shakes you from whatever depth of ennui you’ve been treading like a climber’s hoist into breathable air. And there you are.
This is a place where movement is more than ambidexterity. It’s a full-on state of flow. A constant feel of everything, all at once–but enduring, rather than fleeting flashes. It’s a place for dancing a drawing into the sand. It’s taking the left turn against traffic, knowing even in the crappy car that there’s just enough time, and turning your head to see how close it was–still moving forward. It’s seeing the artwork fully formed, without having made a stroke–but knowing where the materials are, knowing the finished piece may have nothing to do with the flash of concept, knowing that the outcome has nothing to do with the concept.
This is the place where synchronicity occurs with breathing. It isn’t that some cosmic beneficence is popping old favorites on the radio or tinging the sunrise clouds with an especially brilliant hue. It’s that your ears and eyes are at one with the rest of you. All of you. This is a walking, breathing, fully aware state of flow. It can’t be shaken by the minutiae of functioning in the world. Minor irritants aren’t ignored–they are dealt with–with fluid movement and a little humor.
This is a pushed-up sleeves place–where muscle-memory is powered by backbone. It’s a place where intent cannot possibly be shaken by fear, where failure is a learning tool, and the Bandaid box is at least half-full.This is a place for bare toes in the sand, and where steel-toe boots stand next to 4″ red pumps–ready for whatever.
This is a place where fingertips grip the right place the first time, tools have a recognizable heft and balance in the hand with or without gloves–and there’s a constant if mutable rhythm that moves from the ankle, up the spine to the base of the neck no matter where the music is coming from.
This is the place I found in that nebulous place between child and woman. A place I’ve known in extraordinary clarity in childbirth, in painting, in bending torched steel, in loving. This is the place I found again in sobriety after eons of despair. This is the place I’d recently lost track of, but never really feared was lost.
This is the place where I am everything I was meant to be. This is a place of power without any need to challenge. This is the place where I am all I want to feel, and I’m not leaving.