• Fe Robinson

Begin Again - Jeanette Encinitas

Begin Again. Little moments. Running the water. Tending to the plants. Cutting the fruit. Opening the curtains so that the entire sky can greet you. It’s never easy but, no matter. Steam from the tea so quiet. An open book, and door, and arms.

You woke up today. You are alive. This is a gift. Even though life may beat you down. Hard. Even though things, situations, and people you love may be taken away from you so that your arms can memorize the grace of letting them go. Even then, especially then, begin again.

Remind yourself that nothing really dies, rather, it transforms. Everything and everyone you have ever loved lives in the mysterious memory of your cells.

Turning. Healing. Renewing itself. Until one day, a photograph of someone very dear, long gone, visits your mind and you bow your head with appreciation.

Meanwhile, take your pain to the sea and your trouble to the mountain. Leave it there and walk home clean. When failure knocks and rattles and quakes, let it. Watch it make a fresh canvas of you. Failure, the great teacher, is kinder if you thank her as you are getting up off the floor. She knows something that you don’t know: she is usually the last face you will see before breaking through. Such a little light in the crack of the door.

But today, if you are wading through the waters of loss or confusion: begin again. Open the avocado. Draw the bath. Gather the books. Play your favorite album.

Create art. Open your arms. Move your legs. Lovely, little blessings. Whispering to life that you won’t give up.