Live Closer To The Bone


Each of us gathered there to embrace silence and solitude.  It was written clearly and in bold type in the invitation that our days would be ours.  No schedules.  No events to attend.  Nothing to show up to, be held accountable for,  no meals to plan, nobody to answer to.

The evenings would be carved out for story telling.

Gin and tonics weren’t mentioned, but were certainly implied.

There is a unique pattern of breathing that the body adopts when left to its own accord.

It happens spontaneously like rain.

Maybe it’s the pattern of breath we were born with, before our senses took in too much too soon.

I returned to that breath while in Washington.

On the second day of my retreat (the first full day of silence and solitude), that breath lead me straight to her: a tree reaching boldly for the lake whom lied restless above the tip of her roots.

She stood there molting.  Shedding.  Pealing back her crust so that her true rawness, her forbidden intensity, her silky smooth skin could feel the air once again.

She stood there willingly exposed, like a lover in agony.

No apologies.  No pretending.

No waiting for the perfect moment.

Life is such a fleeting gift, she told me.

Don’t waste time picking insects off the tall grass.

Live closer to the bone, Connie.

Live closer to the bone.

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