I’m home — safe and warm, after all my travels. Rain patters softly on the roof.
I think back to the time I spent with family over the past few days, and to the way I gave my body permission to enjoy this holiday fully and completely:
I stood over a wide Wolf range, stirring and breathing in steam.
I sat at a long polished table with eight of my little tribe, and I ate.
I walked down from the house to the river. Ambled along the water’s edge on Christmas morning, when a fog lay over the world like a white blanket –the opposite shore swallowed completely by cloud.
I curled up on the sofa with my three-year-old nephew, J. Let him tuck his head under my chin.
I held my newest nephew, N, for the very first time. Felt him go heavy and slack in my arms, his head lolling back to my shoulder in sleep.
And at church, on Christmas Eve, I stood in the crowd and sang Silent Night with one hand cupped around the golden glow of a little candle. I took in the scatter of light across stained glass — the thousand voices melding — for the briefest moment — into one…
And I was grateful.
Not just for my spirit — the part of me for which the holiday was made — but for my body, which gives me a dozen other ways to experience the magic of it:
In flesh and in bone.
In star-dazzled eyes.
Ears open to song.
Lungs breathing in the scent of winter greenery.
Hands laced into other hands.
Warmth on my skin, and in my heart.
And this — all of this — is good. ❤