for my yoga teacher training cohort
We walk in silence. We walk down my street, past my apartment, to the park where I take my dog nearly every day. This park, with its pretend pirate ship on a playground often brimming with the laughter of happy children. This park, like so many parks: a trusted elder. There’s wisdom here. We walk past the tree that oozes sap, past that one specific rock, that one specific bush, that one specific patch of grass my dog absolutely has to stop and sniff.
We line up along the wooden bridge that connects the two banks of the Deschutes and we face downstream, drape our arms over the railing and open our palms to release. I envision cutting the energetic cord that still keeps me tied to my ex, and I pull it from my chest, yank it from a mental image of hers, and crumple it all together before I throw it into the river metaphorically. I imagine what it might feel like if I stopped getting in my own way. Maybe a little loquacious, like liberation. Wildness. Effervescence. I cup the sunshine in my hands and bring it to my face. Maybe it will feel like this.
A runner canters behind us. His footfalls generate a gentle bob of the bridge – a methodic bounce that soothes me, reminds me that our ordinary existence, our mere movement through this world creates a visceral impact.
We turn to face upstream, artfully invite the opposition, incite in our hearts a graceful riot of receiving the river’s wisdom. Which is our wisdom. The ripples in the water don’t resist the river’s flow, but trail the surface and twist into shapes I don’t recognize as specific things but are things nonetheless. I receive the cool breeze and tickling of stray hairs on my forehead. I savor the warmth of the sun thawing my cheeks. I am rough-hewn, in the making, and superbly perfect for it.
On the walk back to the studio I notice a fluffy tuft of dog fur in the grass. I recognize that some of the trees on this street hadn’t released all their leaves before the onset of winter. They’re still clinging to branches as new buds push forth from their nodes. Maybe we don’t have to let go of all our baggage before we blossom anew, either. Maybe the letting go and the becoming are an ongoing dance, an inevitable and rhythmic coexistence.
I watch a lady generously stuff books from a reusable blue tote bag into the little free library on the corner as we walk past. She gets into her car, looks out through the window at the long line of humans quietly marching with purpose down the street. She looks with what could only be described as curiosity, as wonder. And I smile. Because I think she understands, too. That the ripples are going to take shape, unnamed or not, and if that’s the case, we may as well be intentional with our witnessing.
~
Melissa Mella (they/she) is a queer, neurodivergent poet based in Bend, Oregon. They have been featured in the queer poetry anthology “Relics of Unbearable Softness” published by Beyond the Veil Press, and Eunoia Review. They are currently working on their first poetry collection. They live in a jungle of houseplants with their dog, Floyd, and savor the simple things, like when the swallows come back for spring, the cool side of the pillow, and putting clean socks on fresh out of the dryer. You can find them on Instagram @heretolinger.
