It is one of those mornings.
Cool, warm at the same time.
I walk into church having been away for a spell. Sunshine on my back. The church dark, oak. The Spanish kind. Old French glass streaming color onto faces. Our hues — rose, amber viridian. Borrowed spirits.
Everyone looking good, good morning-ing everyone else across pews and aisles.
The sight, sound, smell of the place makes me think how small and low a roux I let my life boil down to being away. How okay life really is where it counts. Might even make sense once in a while. Life too short to hold a grudge I chide myself filing down the aisle.
W. and T. say hello to me. W. surprises me. Stands. Gives me a hug. I thought she and I weren’t talking, that she’s still mad at me. I dive in. Snatch a deep breath too. Smell oil perfume on her neck. Patchouli.
It is not a yoga breath, therapy breath I take, but an ancient breath. The kind breathed before by others.
Leftover church air, I do not know where from.
Lungs of Christ, bought over in the fold of someone’s robe. Maybe Buddha’s, Tsao’s, Gandhi’s, Martin’s, elder Rachel’s, Sarah’s, Mary’s, W.’s, T.’s.
Borders be damned.
A time from before I was born. Angel air, pre-breath whisper wished into my essence, into babies, the best and worst of us, our parents, forebears, mixed with our highest good, bid from Heaven. Who I am meant to be, want to be at my journey’s end.
A good day to begin again.