The ten minute pilgrimage.

I haven't wanted to write lately and it wasn't until last night that I was inspired to do it anyway. We took a quick trek down to the river, a ten minute pilgrimage down to the bank's edge where walls of dirt rise up on either side of the water, 30 feet high. A huge bridge spans above spans across those walls high above us. It's a great way to feel so, so small.

Somewhere along the way -- sometimes when my feet step onto that huge bridge, sometimes right when we reach the water's edge, sometimes later, closer to when we're ready to leave -- I feel this unloosening, a knot of something in my chest unraveling, slowly, smoothly, every time we go there. Standing there at the water's edge, watching strands of pink clouds reach far across the horizon, seeing the water reach and wind all the way around the bank, into some unknown infinity -- it's like I take my first real breaths of the day.

It got me thinking about the other time I feel this way:

- Sunday morning bike rides with the family, exploring the excavated land just past the six mile marker.
- Just after a run, when my breath is ragged and I feel spent, exhausted, like I just accomplished something really, really good.
- Putting the finishing touches on a perfectly clean kitchen.
- The act of baking or cooking something healthy and delicious for my family to eat.
- On the nights when Mad is actually tired at bedtime, and I snuggle in bed with her for the last few moments of the evening.
- Waking Violet up in the morning, holding her sleep-heavy body while she slowly, slowly wakes up to greet the day.

If anyone is reading this, I'd love to know what your version of a ten minute pilgrimage is - or whatever helps you feel that slow, necessary unraveling and take your first real breaths of the day.