Inhale, Exhale — The Holiday Farm Fire
I step onto my mat, feeling into my feet the comforting familiarity. Inhale, exhale. Smell of smoke fills my nostrils as I forward bend, table top, arms raised above my head, return to center.
The smoke is toxic. But it is also trees and ferns, houses and gardens, reconstituted into particulate. I think Rainer Maria Rilke’s words:
“Breathing: you invisible poem! Complete
Interchange of our own
Essence with world-space. You counter-weight
In which I rhythmically happen.”
As I inhale, exhale. I think. I remember. I feel.
All of us in Lane County, and many beyond, are now part of the burned McKenzie. It is part of us. It has coated the insides of our throats and lungs, seeped through unnoticed crevices into our spaces, added a new layer of meaning to staying home. Inhale, exhale, forward fold, up dog, downward facing dog.
Carl Sagan said that we are all stardust. Inhale, exhale. Saluting the haze-marred sun. Arms raised. Until we all return to particulate form.
