Wind Reclaimation

Remember being a kid and having the wind knocked out of you? I fell on my back a lot as a child, and found myself staring up at the clouds gasping for breath more often than not. I'll never forget the first time: it was at our house on Hilltop Street in Austin, I was four years old and ran towards a trapeze that was hanging from a tree limb in the front yard. My hands slipped and I fell, back flat to the ground, wind, gone. The passing seconds felt like hours, and I was completely terrified by my inability to breathe. But then, gradually, my wind returned, my tears dried up, and I reached up and grabbed the trapeze to play.

I didn't avoid the next opportunity to play on the trapeze, or monkey bars, or tree limb, or car fender, or banister because at some point or another, my footing slipped and I found myself on my back gasping for air. It happened often enough that I eventually stopped being afraid. I knew the routine: fall, gaspgaspgasp, gaspgasp, gasp, gasp, breathe. (If you have seen my shins, you'll know that my swan-like grace is still being honed. One day, people, one day....)

AnyI'llalwaysbeafuckingsevenyearoldwithbruises...

My wind is coming back and it's not discriminating, it's all encompassing and filling every dried up and gasping part of my life. I'm being reminded, yet again, that the healing cycle is autonomous if allowed. There is no need to fight, push, or force. Being present and aware is adequate enough. The path I had placed myself on years ago was not the right one, and if there is one thing I can say with complete certainty, it's that I'm thankful beyond words that my life fell apart and I lost my wind.

Soon, it will be November, which marks two years have passed since my stepdad died. We have plans on putting him to rest in the gulf, where he and my mom fished often over the years they were married. I'm thankful for a legion of things, but mostly for having a mother who is capable of staring straight into the heart of white-hot grief and refusing to give up her optimism. Thanks, Mom.