This morning my psoas woke me with a need for extension. It had dreamed of a younger self who did backbends and double illusions while spinning metal hurled down from the sky to be caught at precisely the moment between awe and loss. But those twirling days, the smell of damp green football fields and buttered popcorn, are over. The psoas has stories to tell. Backbends were easy under the lights where pain was displaced by adrenaline. But this morning my left toes are crooked as a twisted tornado. They were always ignored for the show. High heels are long gone to the Goodwill, like passed on pain. Sideways toes to croaking knee, the psoas tried to hold my life together through two marriages, three religions and two live children. I gained currency by sitting for decades in a chair, shortening its breath while counting other people’s money. Feeling my age means I’m here to breathe into it. I am here in the space of every sensation with a license to let go, if I dare to practice. The great matter is this: Breath, psoas, green football field, and letting go.
Dana Lee 