on the clarity of murky water

I've grown accustomed to the sound of rushing water.  Rushing water filling the bucket, digging into my thigh as its weight grows increasingly each minute, as I dare myself to hold it just a little bit longer.

The satisfying pouring that bring the basins to nearly full, ready for the onslaught of dusty skirts and sweat ringed shirts.  The quiet moment of me slowly sinking, sitting, the cool tile greeting my calves.  An almost graceful, fluid motion for the girl who is anything but.

The soap bubbles cascade over the mountains of blues and greys, and I slowly squeeze, squilch, squash the soap between my fingers, between threads of cotton and polyester.  Slowly, methodically, contracting my fingers, in and out, in and out, moving from one piece to another.  Pushing, pulsing the clean in.  Pushing, pulsing the grime out.

Pushing, pulsing the clarity in.  Pushing, pulsing the clutter out.

Warm sunlight hits the water as it turns toward murky, hits my arms as the tendons stretch and move.  My fingers begin to ache as the water darkens, proof of my efforts, my exertion.  One by one, I pull each mountain, streaming with water, straining with fullness.  Again, my fingers go to work, ringing and wrangling until it drips no more.

Each movement is a new thought, a new gratitude, a new joy.  Of thinking, of glimmering thoughts of small consequence, humming from stream to stream.  Not of all the work that is to come, not of the things that must be accomplished, must be achieved.  Not of success, or failure.  But of color, of sound, of gritty feelings in my veins.  Of silly things, happy things, exactly-where-I-want-be things.

Of exactly where I want to be things.