The other night, during my pre-bed yin yoga routine, I lay on my back, shoulders flat on the thin rubber mat, hips and legs turned in one direction but my head turned in the other, twisting my innards like a corkscrew.

I started to cry.

Not little wimpy tears, but all the way to sobbing, which I hadn’t done for years. They felt like old tears, dredged up, released. But I had no clue why I was crying.

When I can’t figure out what’s going on, I will sometimes turn to tarot cards. I don’t think they’re predictive or evil or anything other than a different perspective on a situation.

I drew two cards, it doesn’t matter what they were. Two words leaped at me from the little guidebook that accompanies the cards:

“feeling guilty”

I wondered. Is there any part of me that feels guilty that I’m alive while Trent is dead? Or guilty that I’m alive while my classmates are dying?

Have I been living, but not allowing myself to fully experience the joy of being alive?

For whatever reason, whether it’s Trent’s death, my mother’s frugality, my dad’s tirades, or my own fears, I’ve been taking shallow breaths of life.

Life is a gift.

It’s time to untie the ribbons.

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Chewing the Cud of Good

 

Thankful for art.