Savasana

Lying in savasana, my hands weighed down by bags of sand, my eyes covered by a lavender pillow, I remembered vividly an afternoon in Poitiers with O. After kebab sandwiches, we walked to a little park on the grounds of what used to be a manor or a castle. We stood at an overlook point, the wind whipping about us, watching trains leave the station and snake through the valley below. We talked about S, and I remember a deep longing for N at a time when things were the definition of uncertain as he pursued his Camino a few hundred miles across the mountains.

Tonight as we stirred from savasana, Mary told us to breathe in pure oxygen, exhaling anything that didn’t come from love or grace. I don’t know where that memory came from – love or grace or longing or deep sadness – but when the weight was removed from my wrists, I felt that memory lift from my body as well, leaving me at peace.

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