Today didn’t look like much on the outside.
A short trip to mom’s place.
A little sweeping.
Car rides. Stairs.
A fan that needed fixing.
A pot of chicken soup left to simmer.
And yet, my heart keeps circling back to it.
It was at my mom’s place that my knee began to speak; a sharp, insistent reminder each time I got in and out of the car, each step up the stairs.
Nothing alarming, just clear.
A body asking to be listened to.
I smiled to myself, remembering how my mom used to tease me about my low pain tolerance. A “2” for most people easily becomes a “10” for me. Pain be it physical or emotional, has always reached me quickly. So does grief.
But maybe that sensitivity isn’t weakness. Maybe it’s honesty.
Looking back now, I realise how my day quietly unfolded around care.
So, as I was at mom’s home, I cleared a little space. I brought something familiar back with me; the table fan I’d been using there. And so, I cleaned it, dismantled it, put it back together and let it spin again.
And then, without much thought, I made chicken soup. Not the rushed kind. The kind that simmers.
A drumstick. Onions, garlic, ginger.
Red dates, black raisins, wolfberries.
Potatoes. Pink salt.
And because the soul asked for it, a splash of red wine.
As it bubbled quietly on the stove, something softened in me.
Only later did I understand that this wasn’t a productive day. It was a tending day!
To memory. To the body. To grief that doesn’t always announce itself loudly. To the part of me that still knows how to soothe without words.
There are days when healing looks like effort and strength. And there are days when healing looks like soup, a working fan and listening when the knee says “enough.”
Today was the latter. And that was more than enough.
It makes me think louder that just like in yoga, sometimes the most important practice is showing up gently, listening and allowing space; for the body, the heart and the soul.
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