Stolen Moments

The lake was deserted on that late autumn day, with no one around for miles. Stark and desolate, sunbleached barren branches rising through the water, weak afternoon sunlight, a single bird picking at weeds along the shoreline, and not a soul except the two of them. He pulled his truck as close to the water as possible so that when they looked through the windshield it appeared they were floating, pointing towards the sharp rocky outcroppings in the distance.

He kissed her, again and again and again, opening her heart like the wide expanse of water before them. Peeled off clothes, foggy windows, yearning, satisfaction and love.

Afterwards they lay tangled, hot and breathless watching the glare of the sunset on the surrounding mountains through the steamy windows. She rested her head on his bare chest, listening -- howling wind, water lapping against the rocky shore, all drowned out by the pounding of his heart. Life.

Yoga

Stretch, twist, hold. Untwist, hold. Push, further, breathe into it, push further on the exhale, hold.

By the end of the hour, I am exhaltant. It sounds like torture, but it’s the closest to nirvana I’ve experienced outside of sex. Yoga is much, much more than a physical exercise; it’s a spiritual release.

Most of us live with little spiritual momentum, and most of those who do, do so within a rigid, judgmental structure. Yoga is a small part of a bigger way of life, one that connects us to the earth, to each other, to Divinity, and back to ourselves.

Because here’s the thing: you’re the one that saves your soul, in the end. That line about how you could be a serial killer, but if you say you love Jesus you’ll be saved bullshit is just that, because if you wait until you’re dead to be saved, you’ll be dead your whole life.

All this bending and stretching leads to enlightenment. Who knew going to the gym could save your soul?

Wood Fires

Fall is a season of crackling: the crackling of dry leaves beneath our feet, the crackling cooking noises of hot breakfasts returning after a summer of fresh fruit and toast, and my favorite, the crackling sound of a wood fire.

I live in Phoenix, Arizona, where we don’t have a very long season of fire-worthy weather -- or, I should say, purposeful-not-burning-down-houses-or-forest fire-worthy weather. (The latter lasts for the hottest four months of the year.) Since we have a short window of opportunity, we take every advantage.

We have a stainless steel fire bowl in our backyard that gets ample use starting right about now. Nights are spent sitting around our mini bonfire with a bottle of wine and a warm sweater -- always one that can be thrown in the washer that night, because it will smell of smoke the next day. The cat casts a wary eye towards the flames and stays far away, knowing that fluffy + sparks = no fun. We watch the flames and embers float towards a sky full of stars and enjoy each other’s company.

A carefully chosen selection of songs is piped out from the living room, usually something martini lounge-ish. Or songs we’ve learned of from the alien ambient station on iTunes radio, just loud enough so as not to cover the sound of the crackling fire. When a bottle or two of wine has been finished, we retire. That’s the nice thing about being a freelancer -- you can help finish off a bottle or two without worrying about staying awake and alert at the office the next day!

We have a gas fireplace in the living room, and we use it often in the cooler months, but it’s not the same as being outdoors with that wild wood fire. As long as I don’t have to carry any wood, that is.