In the presence of a Midwest spring

Inhale.
 
I sink into the earth. The sand warm and supportive. Gritty, molding.
 
Exhale.
 
I sink into the earth from which I came. Attentive to her quiet and powerful energy; her soft, permeating heartbeat.
 
Inhale.
 
It’s morning and I walk along the river. Body sore and awake from yoga, I walk by the glistening river. It flutters in the sun, warming up as winter recedes. Flexing its muscles. Returning to itself. Invigorating and hopeful, a privilege to witness. If only one pays attention.

Exhale.
 
That’s always the key, isn’t it? Paying attention. Noticing. I grieve for the beauty I miss.
 
Inhale.
 
We all know it’s vulnerable. It fluctuates by the minute and the forecast predicts rain. Still we savor the 75 degree Sundays. Cafes drag their tables outside. We roll up our sleeves and drink iced coffee.

Exhale.
 
This is the gift of seasonality: mindfulness, inquiry, gratitude. Awareness of the earth and its movement. Attune to the natural world.
 
Inhale
 
I sink into the earth, on the shore of Lake Michigan. My lungs expand as vibrant, invisible life fills me. The air in my lungs expels back out into the world. A generous, miraculous exchange. 
 
Exhale.
 
Each spring is a rebirth, a resurrection, a shedding of skin. Each spring I come home to myself, each spring I am made new.
 
Inhale.
 
One at a time my limbs lower—tense—then relaxed as they surrender. The recently thawed sand holds me, sculpting as I shift and settle. I rediscover the most natural of states. Not a desk chair, where I spend forty hours a week, but the earth with her ease and welcome.  
 
Exhale.
 
Tired eyes scan the lakeshore. The gentle waves rise and collapse, sunlight brims on the crest. The vertical horizon grows hazy; the sky and water fade together.
 
Inhale.
 
Each spring is a revitalization. A tangible hope. It’s every pair of sandals pulled out from storage and every hammock strung between trees. It’s crowded sidewalks and stroller traffic. There are few smells more hopeful than a barbecue in spring.
 
Exhale.
 
The sun warms my skin as the breeze leaves goosebumps. My eyelids grow heavy and I nestle in further. I don’t speak the language of the dune grass, bowing in the wind, but I rest in its song.
 
Inhale.
 
The whole earth awakens in the coming of spring. And I drift off to sleep.
 
Exhale.