Plodding Twixt Pollen

I have this idea where we could all slow the fuck down.

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Spend more time witnessing ourselves. Just being with ourselves. Noticing ourselves. Curiously. Spaciously. Compassionately.

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There's enough in one day, especially in this culture, to have a daily grief practice. To create space daily to grieve. What would explicit daily grief be like?

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And a daily gratitude practice too. Not the kind where you make a list. The kind that comes after grief. After the dual thrill and discomfort of witness.

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Grief and witnessing.

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Witnessing and grief.

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Daily.

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Notice how you feel towards that. How distant it might feel. How terrifying.

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We're in Taurus season still. And part of Taurus is allowing the wretchedness of simple biology, the enduring awfulness of mundane reality to plod through us, cleansing the way for pleasure and ease.

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And slowing it all down. Not rushing through the discomfort.

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Not rushing either through the pleasure.

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Not rushing.

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If all you do is live, it will be enough.

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I read a line the other day about "troubling the years with your existence" and it made me question whether I was "living my best life," whether I was living deeply and passionately enough. Whether the marks I'm leaving are beautiful enough.

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And today, I'm having the knowing that, witnessing, grief, and gratitude are all the marks I need to make.

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Here and there. Twixt hibernation, thaw, pollen, puddle.

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Plodding.