At this particular moment, I am feeling the growing pains of My Rise.
I know that’s what this is.
This is the resistance, the old story, the usual triggers, the patterns of habit and small thoughts. This is the short-sighted notion that I should go back to playing little. That I should dial it all down.
This is my bones and tissue saying “Ow, mama” as I rise into the expansion of myself.
My lungs have to learn how to breathe in this new air. My skin has to adapt to the temperature change. My eyes need to refocus over and over, until they figure out how to see in this atmosphere. All my senses have to re-heighten themselves.
This is what a rising requires.
This is part of the riser’s journey.
And on days like this, when the rising aches, when the rising asks me to step into altitudes that tighten my throat and squeeze my head, I might try to fight against my rise.
Yes, I feel it happening now. I feel that subtle urge to block it, sabotage it and cause all kinds of delays.
And so, on these days, I choose to open my palms and whisper these words:
Help me ease back onto my rising path.
Help me receive my riser’s wings.
Help my lungs expand.
Help my skin stabilize.
Help my eyes see clearly.
Help my blood and bones and tissue recognize their natural place in the world.
Because fuck that old shit. I am here to rise.