Breathing 

My breathing is slow and even tonight; liquid almost, like the Spanish moss draping lazily over the trees towering above lush Savannah.

I’m in a small beach house on St. Simons Island tonight, the same house where my family has been making Thanksgiving memories for several years. The bed I sleep in tonight is the one I always sleep in when our family is spending Thanksgiving in Ms. Jane’s beach house. 

As we drove into the island, I could smell the salty water in the air, almost to where I could taste the salt on my lips. Anticipatory and psychosomatic, no doubt. 

But most of all, I could breathe. 

Deeply, painlessly, clearly. 

Stresses of packing and cleaning and moving, pressures of daily life (mostly self-imposed) are miles behind me and, though I am here for a conference and will be very busy learning things and networking over the next few days, I’m also here to rest in a new setting. 

To recharge a bit; to let the ocean air style my hair this week and call the shots, the breezy nights killing me into a deep, PEACEful sleep. 

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