Peace rippling -flowing over aged hands
muscles stretch to inhuman lengths
until the soul cries out “I’m here!”
This is why I clamor for my mat
lay myself and bend hoping for relief
hoping for answers
hoping for sweat.
It is difficult to explain the melodies
that echo from my head flowing out
veritably felt by each spirit in the space
They hear a foreign language, with no comprehension
only the emotion translating hand
gestures written on the sub-conscience
They’ll perceive it as a bow
call me humble
call me beautiful
I am neither of those things. The terror of that follows me
as I glide through the movements, making microscopic
changes in position that reverberate first in my mind
then trickle down into my soul until I am weeping
wetting the mat with salt and truth
a truth I never have words for
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Erin is a doula, writer, mother to men, and teacher on permanent hiatus. She loves how writing connects us and thrives on the bright edges of human experience.