I’ve been here before.

I’ve been here before.

Not this location. Not this space.

In this body with these feelings. These sensations and sentiments. I’ve been here before.

I splash warm water onto my hands and lather, inhaling the citrusy sweet smelling soap. Inhale. Exhale. I have missed this place.

Wandering back up to my hidden book nook, peering over the edge of the wooden railing and out onto the many bustling bodies. Some joyful. Some dreadfully exhausted. Others seeming to near a debate over the next morning’s breakfast reservation. All of them moving. All of them feeling–knowing–their lives, their priorities, their desires and hopes matter.

In this space, the magnitude of the vastness of it all overwhelms me. There is death and loss and fear and illness and keep-you-up-at-night worries served up for everyone–not a single one immune from the reality of mortality.

And yet. Even still. We eventually find joy. We feel exhaustion. We feel passionately enough about things to debate over something as miniscule as mouse shaped breakfast choices.

I know this space. And each time I get to be in this body, recognizing this reality, I beg myself to remember.

When I worry. When I lose. When I meet an illness so vile I meet the bathroom floor.

Remember…remember…remember being in this body seeing these things. I implore myself again and again.

One day, when you’re clinging to cold tile in pain, when you’re up at 4:03 a.m. imprisoned in worry: remember…remember…remember.

You will eventually find joy again. You will eventually feel exhaustion–for good reasons–again. You will eventually find passion and desires strong enough to debate about pancakes.

Until you meet this body and greet this space again…remember. Remember. Remember.