When my kids are both snuggled closely into me at night, fast asleep in my arms, I experience a toe-curling pleasure, the deepest happiness I’ve felt.
The memory of living in Byron Bay, Australia, when I would wake at 4a.m., run to the lighthouse as the sun was rising and then fly down the hill with my arms outstretched, flapping like a bird and not caring one bit how it looked. My hair was waist-length and golden and I was strong as fuck. I spent my days leading scuba expeditions, diving with sharks, and then catching a few rays in my hammock before turning in for the night.
When I write. The words flow and they feel as though they come from someone or somewhere else; not me so much as an infinite Creative Source.
In the kitchen. Kneading dough, simmering onions and garlic in wine, or even just scrambling perfectly soft eggs for my kids’ breakfast.
Hiking. With a kid on my back or without, feeling the sureness of my feet encased in my boots, the sweat beading on my neck, the freedom of wind through trees and silence.
When I am traveling. There is something that happens to my state of mind the minute I have embarked, even if I’m just waiting in line at the airport. I feel calm, ready for anything, and completely invigorated.
Riding my bike, fast, down long seaside hills or intricately, around potholes and manholes and parked cars.
Funky hair, flowing skirt, gemstone jewellery, Birkenstocks.
Crossword puzzles. Cups of warm milky tea served in pottery mugs. Knitting.
Riding my purple motorcycle. Being a contradiction (see above: knitting and mugs of tea)
Alignment isn’t something that I, or anyone, likely, feel every moment of every day. But remembering the moments – big and small – that make me feel most aligned give me a roadmap for feeling that way more often.