The smell of fresh cut grass. Fleeting carefree moments of childhood. The scent of patchouli. A tangle of floppy hair and collarbones and sunny college days blending one into another. Digging toes in hot sand. The warmth of the sun on my face. The smell of the ocean, the sound of crashing waves. At once so alive and so peaceful.
The stench of beer and liquor seeping from pores. Disgusted and repulsed. Leaned on, pawed, and petted. The burden of babysitting, politeness, codependency. The sound of beer cans popping, one after another into the night. Trapped and hopeless.
Sun catching dirty blonde floppy hair. Memories of my first love that make me smile. Wrapping fingers in dark Jim Morrison curls. Makes me curl my toes and sigh.
The sensations of life map out my haphazard course. Drawn to them time and again like a dancer's muscle memory. They sketch out light, darkness, passion, hope, anticipation. Perhaps it is sense memory of being in the womb that draws the liveaboards to be rocked to sleep by the sea. A time when the cruelty of the world had not yet been revealed.
I need to better heed my sense memory. Breathe deeply the fresh cut grass of springtime. Savor the musky, passionate scent of patchouli. Grab those Jim Morrison curls and don't let go. But do not sit quietly amidst the drunken mayhem; do not become the caretaker. Those years lost should be dead and buried, I served my time and earned my hard-fought freedom.
Gratefully, my legs remember how to run, remember how to balance as the boat rocks in the wind. At last I returned to my yoga practice this morning--the first time aboard. The cabin lacks clearance to raise my arms outstretched above, (sun salutations will have to be topsides), but otherwise accommodates my much-needed meditation, stretching, and balance.
I am looking forward to some spring renewal and rebirth; a return to running, eating better, drinking less, finding physical and mental balance in yoga and elsewhere. Somehow in all the spinning one must also maintain a focal point. I can't say that I know what mine is. Yet I always hold onto it, do not topple over.
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