grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

Arkansas River – Dreaming from Dorothy’s Ridge

By

(written from Dorothy’s Ridge, Little Rock, Arkansas)

Grace Grits and Gardening, Arkansas River
my view from Dorothy’s Ridge
From my spot high atop Dorothy’s Ridge, the Arkansas River appears calm and unmoving, yet I know her water churns from Rocky Mountain headwaters. Winding across our country’s mid-section, she flows through Kansas and Oklahoma before slipping past me.
Although I can’t see the next bend of the river, I know she empties into the mighty Mississippi River.
Although I don’t know where life will lead, I recognize that’s part of the journey. 
Arkansas River headwaters at Leadville, Colorado

Dream of sunrise high atop a ridge
Overlooking the Arkansas
River. Worries seem faint,
Obscured by a veil of morning mist,
Tranquil and
Hazy.
Yesterday fades. My
Summer wanes.

Reflect on this moment as sunlight casts its
Image of tomorrow and
Daylight brightens,
Growing
Endless.

“A river seems a magic thing. A magic, moving, living part of the very earth itself.” 
― Laura Gilpin

talya

Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.

Be sure to follow my friend Dorothy’s blog – Reflections from Dorothy’s Ridge. 

Dorothy and Me

Seven Shades of Yoga

By

morgueFile Kakisky
Within seven seconds, I chose yoga over Facebook. I hadn’t been to yoga in weeks and was spending way too much time with the other. But I’d been busy. Writing, I’m alway writing. And last month I had strep throat that lingered. Plus we just returned from vacation. 
Yada, yada. 
Excuses, excuses. 
Seven minutes later, I was out the door and into the humid morning wearing my favorite yoga pants that somehow seemed smaller.
After a seven minute drive, I signed my name on the clipboard. “Don’t worry if I spend the whole class in child’s pose—just ignore me, I’m rusty.” I explained to Michelle who teaches Explore the Body. I needed to explore my body. We had become strangers as of late.
Michelle laughed and promised to call an ambulance if I stopped breathing altogether. She’s nice that way.
I sorted through at least seven yoga mats to uncover mine, dusty and abandoned, propped in the corner where I left it in July.  
Seven minutes into shoulder stretches, I felt the squeeze of a Charley Horse building through my arm. I adjusted. Charley eventually released his vise-grip hold on my invisible bicep, but not until I reverted to steady pre-labor breathing exercises. 
Seven minutes later, I floundered into and out of Thread the Needle Zen Pose. But I did it. Sort of.
Seven more poses, and my shoulders loosened, my mind cleared, the nerve endings in my body tingled. 
Seven cleansing breaths into Uttanasana, I could bend near enough to the ground to notice my shabby toe polish. 
Seven shades into final Shivasana, I remembered why I love yoga. 
Namaste.
talya
This was written for the Write Tribe Festival of Words. Prompt: the number Seven.

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!