Drip

Drip.

I move in my yoga class and as I hold a pose, the room is silent.

Drip.

And I can hear my sweat drop onto the floor.

Drip.

And I imagine the beads of sweat are my negativity, my confusion, my doubt.

Drip.

I have been called over-sensitive, hyper, impossible to please, and my answer is to listen and be still.

Drip.

And my stomach untangles its knots.

Drip.

And my mind goes blank.

Drip.

And I focus on my movements and being in the present and the stillness and everything else falls out of me.

Drip.

In a shower of release.

Drip.

I am free.