If all feels overcast and all you see is gloom, might I suggest a minute under the sun?
I have been tethered to my bed, to this house for about a month now and the sun, which has admittedly kept its distance for much of February and March, has still managed to nourish me even on its shyest days.
Under the sun, I’ve breathed deeply without my head in my lungs, instructing the best inhale and exhale technique for stress relief, for pain relief. The breaths are instead instinctual, helplessly aroused by the taste of sunlight.
My body, which has brought me more pain than I anticipated in recent weeks, feels invincible under the rays. I can climb the oak tree of my dreams, swim the distance between here and homeland; I can even fly if I try.
Something happens inside the brain when heat sleeps on my skin. Imagine the head near a river dam and on the river, a small flat iron skiff and on the boat, a sun-particle steering the way. Destination: fingertips.
Under the sun, I write for hours.
—fiza
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