I believe in the rhythm. Perhaps more than anything else in the world. Breath. Day and night. Seasons. Birth and death. Flowering and rotting. The flow of time.
I've been thinking lately how lucky we are that the sun sets and rises each day. That we get to reset our internal clocks. Cycle through. Refresh.
This morning I watched a man on a bicycle ride up 13th street. It was foggy and warm, like the Oregon Coast in September; always on the brink of rain. I thought about Ambiya; her declaration that she rides her bike 365 days a year as a way to show herself that she can do anything. So if we see her crying or grunting or making angry-as-fuck faces on her bike, no matter, she's just doing what she's got to do to get through.
Being a warrior isn't always graceful. And maybe I just couldn't get over that. The part of the story that included losing some battles. Losing arms. Losing legs. Losing the way it was. Losing faith.
No matter, now. Now, I'm re-reading my old journals. The pages on which I wrote, I want to give it all away. Do I even know what that means? I'm sure I'll find out. I'm re-reading those pages and sinking into my humility, with gratitude, with the sense that I found out more than I ever thought I would about the beauty of loss.
About the rhythm of rebirth. The flow of time. Learning how to dance, awkward beginning steps, and all.