I feel the ache always in my lower back, the way that our planet’s slinging around a ball of fire pulls me to the earth, tugging out the way I carry myself through all the day – stuck out, held up, bolstered.
Here, in shavasana, I give all that up. I lay my body out, long and flat. I take the corpse pose and give in to gravity and the weight of myself alone.
It hurts. The tugging down on my hips, the reminder that I bear so much there in their purple-hued goodness that I most often don’t see. It hurts to lay still, to not do, to give in to the way my body has realigned in postures, the twists and inversions and simple sitting still with my eyes closed.
A little death. A lot of giving in.
Today, I want to fight. I want to rail against hatred spewn in my name and in the name of the One who is Love. I want to speak and stand loud. Solidarity.
Yet, I cannot speak well to this – not with my life so much of all that I want – wedding, husband-to-be, farm, writing. Not with the light burdens of those things so fully with me. I cannot bring that rage, that fear, that hatred in right now; I can’t speak to it with love. Not now.
So I stay silent, and I lay my body down, flat, long. Beside you. Beside her. Beside him. Present. Giving in to the love and the rest that come with the most quiet kind of solidarity. Presence. Here. Now. Unburdened and unburied. A reminder to myself that our love is the key. Always.