Your touch.

In knee pile.

Forward bend with eagle arms.

Heated room. Forrest yoga.

She walks around the room pressing her hands on our lower backs and lifting us further forward, finding the space we didn't know was there. She walks to the person behind me and I hear, "I don't like to be touched."

My mind wants to understand this desire to miss what is my favorite part of the yoga practice. My heart understands the things that could make someone turn away from the assist of space finding. The hurts that must have come first.

Be present. Feel. The words from the teacher's lips guide me into stories of my own withdrawal from touch. When there is pain. When I don't want to connect in the physical world because words must be spoken first. Because I am craving the newness that comes from shattered moments of disconnect.

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We throw off our clothes onto the dense sand, filled with shell bits that press into our feet as we step.

The air muggy. The glow from the moon giving truth to the stillness of the water. Our naked bodies glide in. Or fall in. Or slowly ease in.

Shivering. Joy. The touch of the water. Hugs from bodies we've known for years or only just met now vulnerable and open and real. Tiny bits of glowing lights surrounding us as we wave our arms under the surface of the waters.

Knowing that this a new way to be touched. By water. By other women. By being brave.

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"I missed your lips."

Re-entry from a weekend of bliss met by touch. Fingers massaging my scalp as though telling me that the work I do, the way I have chosen to show up and lift others is seen as beauty.

My body surrendering after days of moving, doing, planning, making sure it is all just so. From the space found from her hands lifting me forward in that heated room, to the circling, to the waters of joyful baptisms to the comfort of my bed.

Surrendering into not knowing and loving that place because it is real. More real than any other place of touch I have been inside of.

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