Flying

I went for a bike ride this morning. The kind of bike ride I used to go on as a kid. The kind that trails through the shady, damp woods. Breathe in dirt and moss. The kind that makes my heart race and my senses open wide. Makes my face bright, beet red. Up and down sandy, trails, crunching dead leaves under rubber tires. Over makeshift bridges, covered with carpet (someone really cares about this secret place ~~) My t-shirt sticks to my back, drenched. My breathing labored, like Darth Vadar. At first my muscles sleep, refusing to help me. But by the middle of the ride, they decide to wake up, to stretch, to fill. They remember.

I am reminded of that feeling of play. I remember the exhiliration of soaring, of abandon, of sweating. I feel my muscles move, my skin breathe, my bones creak. For the first time in years, my mind is quiet. It doesn't utter a sound, a rancid thought, a complaint.

My heart flew and now, of course, it wants to fly again and again.