It is Saturday, my twenty thousand, three hundred and ninety fourth go at it. This opening and closing, this rise and fall, this long exhale. A nod to Saturn and his counting. A gratitude for repetitions.
I am glad of the pain's receding, that jangle of nerve ends quieted. Glad of the ability to swing my leg, flex my ankle, bend at the waist without setting off the klaxons. Glad of the pooled quiet in my mind, the room to move about there. Glad of the green screening the windows, the intermittent petal-fall, soft as sighing. Glad of these small routines that step us through, arriving, bowing and rising again.