I got off the train tonight and escaped down a side street and began to cry. It's been happening more often of late, this crying thing. It turns out the body is a miraculous machine with emotions that pop up like sign posts pointing to information. Look, this way, they say.

It's such a strange time. I am fine and I am not. I am sad and I am not. I am ready to move on, but also stuck. I finally feel worthy and also now wonder if I ever wasn't. I can feel myself expanding in some energetic way, daring to take up space--finally--and suddenly there is pushback. Outside forces advocating for containment.

And I think of Laura, and can't help but wonder: bamboo shoots cracking, maybe?

I'm particularly fond of the balancing poses in yoga--the shape of them--the container in which they are housed being one of stillness. But really the body is ever moving, constantly adjusting and adapting. I am trying to hook into that right now--the movement within the stillness.

It must be a glorious thing when the bamboo shoots finally break. But the sound of it--the rumble and the crack--the feeling just as they push up against the last of the soil--nearly violent in their ascent--it must be scary and uncomfortable. But necessary, too. A different sorts of sign post: look what we've done, look how far we've come, look where we're going.