I’m annoyed by the world. Good for no one. Irritated by everything.

My head is aching on the inside.
Left side of my jaw is buzzing.
Tongue feels thick as a beef steak.

It’s hard to feel icky. Really hard.

Not sick.

Icky. 

I hate how I am for other people when I’m in this spot.

This locked down tight and drawn up spot.
I can feel my upper chest climbing into my throat.
It’s not comfortable. At all.

I don’t want to write.
I don’t want to deliver.
I don’t want to watch screens.
I don’t want to do anything.

I want to curl up and tuck in and not emerge for anyone.

Ugh.

Yoga allows me to let go of the why to this state. And to be with the what.

Yoga whispers, “This is.”

And I respond, “Bah-humbug.”

Because the river flows. Annoying as it may be sometimes.

And the friggin’ river is sludgy right now.

Ugh.

Let me sink in. Let me drift down.
Let me seep heavy and warm.
Let me soften from this lump of clay.
Let me find my way into a puddle of nothingness.
Let me melt so that in the melting,
I flow a little more.

Or.

Just let me be sludge. 

Sludge has a time and place too.
Let sludge be the thing that is here.
Let it be what I accept and feel.
And welcome.

Even as the 10 year old pads in on freshly showered feet, leans toward me on the bed, and softly hums the Lion King song, “Can you feel the love tonight?”

She rests her hands upon my belly, face smashed into the bed with her soft and heavy end-of-day self.

She peaks up at me.

That smile.

Her smile loosens the sludge for a moment.

A single moment.
And that counts.

Sludge still here. But thinned a bit.

Now.
30 seconds later.
Post Ru’s impromptu sing-along,
I’m smiling.

And that counts too.

Thinner sludge. And I’m smiling.

Onward goes the river.
Muddy sludgy, clear and light.
Onward goes the river.

Flow baby, flow.

Take good care,
Rachel