My yoga routine this morning included a meditation on "if my heart were planted what would it grow?" I imagined sprouts of hot air balloons taking to the air like dandelion seeds.
The house is quiet, another afternoon spent alone at home and I fill my time with collages, letters, and books. Words and images. When my head grows tired I stalk around the block, a few streets that feel more like part of my own backyard then a neighborhood I live in. Streets that are worn over in my memory with layers of people and conversations held while feet pounded against this pavement, the playground court, the swingsets. Lately we've been venturing into the thin band of woods while we weave our lives back together over and over, from everyday experiences.
I feel joy.
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