This morning I noticed something that I’ve probably been doing unconsciously for years.  When I sit down at a restaurant and there’s a menu card on the table, I get rid of it.  As in putting it on the floor or on another table.

I want space.

At that same restaurant, I always pick a chair that gives me a long view, out into the room, rather than facing the wall – even a gorgeous wall.

I’ve gone on many meditation retreats at a centre in Massachusetts.  And there’s a walk among fields and forest that I’ve done many times.  At one point the road stretches forward in a straight line that goes on forever.  That always gave me a thrill.  I would stop and gaze … “the long road”.

A version of hell that has lived in my mind for decades is being inside one of those huge refrigerator boxes – my arms tight against the sides, the top brushing my hair.  No room to dance.

In my better dancing moments, I whirl and throw my arms around.  Freedom is knowing that my fingers won’t bump into a wall, that my flowing will continue to express unimpeded.

Speaking of fingers, they are certainly wise.  They know both the joy of being nestled together and of bursting out into the world, with great spaces between.

Room to roam