It is raining here as I read of snow in the land of many of those I care for and love. I am wrapped in gray, wintry light, even as I imagine them in white.

On Sunday, I participated in a meditative, contemplative movement group to explore Death and Art in Our Everyday Life. We walked at first, walked randomly, then, walked in grids, aware of others and the space, and then, we each chose our time and way of circling down, down, down, to the ground, and then, when we were ready, we rose. It sounds simple but it was a way to feel how each moment there are beginnings and endings. Sometimes we may spiral down, and, other times, we rise.

There was a continuity to it, a sense of living and dying, and movement as a base, a hum.