Today I woke up in the dark and snoozed my alarm at least four times before scrambling out of bed, sleepily trying to remember why I allowed myself to stay up past eleven the night before and instantly worrying about my energy levels for the rest of the day. 

Today I hopped on the back of a motorcycle and I saw thick fog blanketing everything around me. The moisture collected on my clothes and my skin became sticky, my hair a knotted mess as the wind whipped through it. 

Today I saw some thirty tiny piglets crammed into a cage on the back of a motorcycle, piled on top of one another squealing, afraid. I fought back the tears and shut my eyes tightly, pretending I didn't know, telling myself I didn't want to know, fighting against the overwhelming emotion, blanking it out each time it came back into my mind as we zoomed past. 

Today when we arrived at the seaside, it looked like Heaven. The fog blocked out the sunrise but everything was bathed in an orange-pink glow. The beach was deserted and all that could be seen of the ocean was the soft waves gently lapping against the shoreline. Where usually you look out so that the sea becomes an endless mass, today the fog made it impossible to see past the waves.  

Today I saw birds in cages and puppies enclosed in small wire fences waiting to be sold and I felt a fiery anger burning within me. Today I fought to control it and push it down, reserved my need to scream, like I had done so many times before. Today I took deep breaths in and out, in and out. In. and. Out. 

Today I ate oatmeal for lunch, with strawberries and raw cacao and coconut and peanut butter that got too hot and melted so that when I pulled out the spoon it drizzled and poured out over the berries in the creamiest, most seductive way. Today the smell of peanut butter and coconut and fresh strawberries and chocolate seduced my senses and I had a love affair. 

Today I told my mother I would go to India alone, to which she replied “no”. I laughed. 

Today I started reading the novel, Ishmael, and I read and read and read. I got through a hundred pages in one sitting and my head got heaving and overwhelmed with mankind's wrong doings. Today I played ukulele despite my fingers being a complete mess, peeling and cracking and refusing to heal. Today I traced my fingertips, searching for my fingerprints that had once been present and didn't find them.  

Today I burned my arm on a hot pan and watched as the skin turned from a light pink to a raised brownish-red tattoo identical to the rim of the pan, and I didn't curse or tell myself to be more careful. 

Today I opened my classroom door and found tiny people jumping up and down, and an instant “wow!” in awe of my appearance. They pulled at the hem of my dress and they spun around me, pushing to get into the room. I sang and danced and I fed off their energy and curiosity and creativity and openness, their love for being alive. 

Today I suddenly felt the need to write and before long I felt my fingers moving across the keys without thinking. I typed until it was over, and, today I cried as I read this after it was written. The moisture on my eyelashes subtle at first, and then tears created lines down my cheeks. 

Meditation. Deep breaths again. 

In and out.