I stumble like a half drunk. After the fine japanese needles piercing my skull skin released the tension of days, to coffee reawakening, to Walden. The air is clear and cool, calm now the winter chill has driven through, sweeping the last threatened snow with her. Away, away. They say the air will warm next week.
It is Spring, though the morning temperatures are not yet allowing it fully and the water not yet free to flow. Flow and reach into the places hidden since last fall.
I told my acupuncturist that sitting there, my head in my hands and the fine red tipped needles in my skull skin was the most nourishing part of my week. I was wrong. It is only the beginning of the my nourishment today.
I arrive at the beach deserted, the ice pitted, still and dazzling in the afternoon sun. My mind still holds inside it a beautiful stillness, almost as tranquil as the ice, only more fluid. It breathes relaxation in and out as air moves through my lungs.
I have come because I have to, walking between and among a forrest of unmoving trees, wanting to see sun, to feel birdsong loosen the scarf around my neck, to sit, to wonder.
The pond surface is a checkerboard of ice. Broken slabs sheared from its body, skin displaced, floating in the serosity of warmer sunlit days, and now, at mercy of the chill wind, refrozen. Lost from their mooring.
I wonder, as many who have come before, and will again. What lies beneath.