Mending with Mindfulness

And maybe if we let ourselves play again, we’ll find out it was never childish. It was sacred all along. And if the sacred happens to look like a grown woman making cloud animals on the trampoline or humming her way through the dishes, well… maybe that’s the point.

I have an itch. Not on my skin, though sometimes it feels that way. Not in my bones, though my body aches from it. It’s a pulse, a deep urge with no name, a constant presence. A longing. I have an itch— to write, to read, to learn, to scream, to cry, to run, to hide.

Past, present, and future, haunting us with a steady ache that doesn’t scream, doesn’t demand, but simply settles in like it belongs. It doesn’t knock us flat; it wears us down. The way a constant hum can drive a person mad, the way an old injury still throbs when the weather shifts. It’s not often urgent. It’s not loud. It’s just there.

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