the way you close your eyes while brushing your teeth, tracing cleanliness like a sheet of paper pressed to a window, lighting the way over established lines
the morning you were alone and in a quiet way, witnessed a bird playing with a feather clasped in its beak, then released. the perfect turns in flight to swoop in sharply and catch it again. an engineer's precision.
the swell
knowing when to stop, when a work is finished
finding an ending opening into transition
the tug that always brings you back to it
like a person who can't be let go because
you could never have them, truly
the powerful motion backed by steadied breath and the sunlight breaks through the window onto only your mat. you don't have to you know you are connected, the fact is upon you
that quirky Rolodex you store in your head, facts and figures filed almost independently of your will
the sense of knowing when you've found something worth developing, an idea, a technique, a seed you've been looking to nourish
the pains, revealing
a joy in daring
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