In the last week of my thirties …

In the last week of my thirties, I screw together a small, foldable writing desk with an Allen wrench, place it directly in front of a mid-March sunbeam, and exhale. I light a long, rough piece of palo santo, tuck my legs beneath me, and close my eyes. The train ambles by. A jagged piece of amethyst scratches against my palm as I curl my fingers loosely over its edges and smile.

I read a collection of essays by Sue Monk Kidd and weep, fall asleep with my head buried in the chest of a man who whispers love notes into my freshly chopped hair, a messy part spilling over with graying strands, and rustle as an elderly cat hops onto the end of the bed and gingerly paws her way up my legs to fall asleep between us.

I give thought to the tens of thousands of miles I’ve traveled throughout my thirties, and how the tug of forty pulls me home.

“She reminds me that the thirst for God is a deep and mysterious thing, which we often try to quench by searching for it in far-flung places. Ultimately, though, spiritual refreshment is found close to home, in the wellsprings of our own being.”

My spiritual journey led me right back to where I started. But this time with elevation, awareness, and experience. The next practice begins.