I want to live a soft life.
I want my belly to move when I breathe. I want to stop and touch the rosemary bush down the street just to smell it on my fingers. I want to let the blackberries stain my hands as I pick them, to let the thorns scratch my arms a little so I can reach the best bunch further in. To watch the juice run down my daughter’s face as she eats them from the bowl, even if we haven’t washed them yet.
I want to take my time reading a book. Just a handful of pages a day. To sit with it, to soak in it, not to devour it. This isn’t a life of devouring. This is a life of tastes.
I want to walk a lot of miles. Around the block today, through the park tomorrow, in and out of neighborhood shops this weekend. I want to notice my heart in my chest as I climb a hill. I want my body to do what bodies do. I want my body to be what bodies are. Changing. Aging. Feeling. Living. Breathing. Moving. Flowing. Loving. Loved.
Can’t we just let our bodies, body?
I’ll never do a burpee again. They don’t bring me joy. I’ll run another half marathon and one after that, because feeling my body move and breathe in that way - inhale for three steps, exhale for two - feels incredible to me. If it doesn’t anymore, then I won’t.
I’ll walk aisles upon aisles of antique stores and leave without buying anything because the rare feeling of instant knowing when I find something that belongs in my home is so good and the mystery of its story before me is so fulfilling in its unknownness.
I want to let go of “perfect” and “just right” and “done.” They’re only shadows, anyway. They lack light.