“Where are you?”

“Where are you?” A soft voice whispers.

I answer to myself, I’m on a dock, its dusk, and there’s a fog floating over the water. There are trees in the distance that I can barely make out, partly because I am in control here, no one else. I choose not to focus on them. I focus on me. I close my eyes.

The air isn’t warm or cool, it’s ‘comforting’.

In the back ground I hear soft sounds, I hear water slowly lapping up against the dock pilings as they stand tall and firm holding my dock. Cranes in the midst of the weeds gently disturb the calming water as they search for food ever so quietly as if they understand my reasoning for being here.

I hear soothing sounds in the back ground, a tone, maybe a chime? I wait for it again as I practice stillness. Eyes closed, bringing in what I want for myself within this practice. Peace, joy, contentment. I repeat this through my mind…peace, joy, contentment.

It is as if my eyes can sense a dim light that passes me by every few minutes. No homes around, no roads for cars. Water traffic only, but none tonight. The water is mine. All mine. As if it understands why I have come.

The chime rings again, it’s a bell. I envision a gold bell, but not nothing new. This bell is old and worn, it has a dull handle and some of the waist of the bell is dingy, almost tarnished. I can tell this bell has many stories, it’s clapper is worn from calling out across the water, calm or rough tides, it has brought many home. It rings with purpose yet gentle as if not to disturb me, as if it knows why I have chosen this place. I feel it. Peace has come to me.

The dock is made of hard wood, strong sturdy and true wood. There are slats that have lifted from misty mornings and rough storms, some smooth, some rugged. Markings from fisherman’s tackle boxes and five gallon buckets. Yet, I can feel myself sink into it. Feeling my shoulders tuck underneath me, my hips press back feeling my tailbone press firmly against the wood. Within my back each vertebra claim their own existence with each plank. The back of my thighs fall into the grain as my shins rest upon my calf muscle owning their own piece of the dock. I feel my feet press long toward the water as my arms reach past me to wherever this dock meets the shore. The shore is not here, I will not focus on it. I focus on me.

In the distance I imagine a lighthouse, the owner of the passing light. It throws its light across the fog lighting the way for its travelers, It’s bell rings out in a form of safety of the fog, pairing with the light that shows them their way home. I feel it. Joy has come to me.

I breathe deeply taking in the fresh air, filling all of my lungs, holding it in to become a apart of it before I exhale it back to the water. Letting it become a part of me, it is crisp to my lungs but kind to my body, it gives me the control to hold it longer, as if it knows why I have sought it out.

I feel the fog cover me like a blanket of trust. I breathe in and out, in and out, in and out, slowly holding each inhale a bit longer every time, exhaling understanding the purpose of my being here.

The soft voice comes back to me “Come home” it says. Come home, I have found my home.
I bring my hands together in prayer and place them to my hearts center. I thank God for this beautiful place He has allowed me to visit. I open my eyes.

Yoga class is over. I feel it. Contentment has come to me.


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