Sitting with pain, flowers behind my head in a pose that isn't, actually, that bad in front of 7 middle-aged women, carving out and scooping back time after births, stretch-marks, wrinkles, & finding they could, after all, stand their husbands enough for a weekend away. & there's me – figure-molding blue velvet dress, blown-glass necklace with hints of marijuana an innocent blue flower at its centre, given to me by my beloved and I think about how, when I want to loop my love out to him, and stellar-burst my heart right into his, I stop myself, and bring it back, because it might not be welcome. Just as my shouts of “Look at this, Dad!” were an assault on a tracksuited man on a sofa who wanted only to be left alone to digest his disgust with life. (& tomorrow I will see that I can, in fact, let the burst come into me, not out of a holding back, but out of love – enough for him, too). But in the class, sitting, I see none of this yet. The strands of that process are still tied up black, harsh & useless in my throat & stomach like glass from too many broken vows. I sit with it: the pain By the end of the session it has turned from black glass to coral, floating in the light that just reaches the top of the sea.
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This is beautiful.