Feel carefully,
Letting your mind drift down from its awareness in your head.
Let it slowly flow down your neck,
Along your sides.
As you breathe,
Feel all five lobes of your lungs expand,
Each filling slowly,
Individually,
Pulling in the scent of lemons.
Notice how thick that fragrance is,
A heavy smell all around.
Hold your awareness there for a moment as you breathe in.
.
.
Out.
.
.
As you inhale again,
Let your mind drift down to your hips.
Feel how they are holding you up,
Tilted correctly,
Almost sitting,
Though you currently stand.
Feel those bones suspend your body,
Balancing your torso and their cradle,
And that downward press coming from above as you breathe in.
.
.
Out.
.
.
Settled in your hips,
Stance comfortable,
Move on down to your thighs,
The heavy,
Ropey muscle balancing you well.
Feel along those tendons until.
.
.
There,
That spot on the top of your quads,
Just above your bent knee.
Feel how tight that muscle is.
Massage it with your mind,
Relaxing it further into the stretch.
Note how odd it is that only one leg,
Not both,
Is tense,
How out of balance you are.
Ease that muscle,
Even as you maintain the stance.
More stable now.
Better,
But still not fluid enough.
You need more practice.
Feel yourself smile,
Amused in that notion,
Because it is always true.
There is no end to practice.
As that thought dwindles,
Let it go,
Finding your mind blank again.
Simply be amongst the moonlit trees until the fourth wind blows.
Feel that cool sensation drift over you,
And let your eyes open,
Seeing the wild citrus scattered all around you.
A grove,
Natural and unkempt,
Leaving those thick yellow pods scattered all around.
Take note of the little creatures that scamper amongst these,
Each making quick,
Furtive bites of the sour fruit.
See their thin,
Brown coats and lithe,
Tiny bodies,
Tubular,
Almost like snakes,
Except for those six little paws.
Watch them squiggle and dance,
Flinging themselves over the ground,
Darting at the old,
Decaying refuse there.
Those fruits might be safe,
But they are not why you are here.
With that breeze,
Note how the clouds part fully,
Exposing the grove to the light of three glowing moons,
Each a slightly different shade,
Ranging from pure white to the deep orange-brown of the harvest,
Each a different phase,
Full,
Quarter,
And a sliver.
Wait.
Inhale.
Exhale.
There.
There's the unlit,
The fourth moon,
That soft feel of possibility.
It has risen,
Though it cannot be seen.
That subtle,
Incomprehensible maybe settling on your skin.
Hear that rustle,
The shifting amongst the fruit,
Glance up and see the closest,
That thick yellow rind,
As it delicately splits into four,
Each piece peeling back.
As they unfurl,
Notice so many little strands reaching out,
Feeling at all the little flows of air.
Flower-like,
The filaments swirl and dance around a central fruit,
Perfectly oval and bright yellow even in this pale light.
Notice how it shimmers and flickers on it,
A thin sheen of oil still clinging to it.
So the oil drips off,
And the scent,
So strong,
Fills your nostrils.
Feel your knees spring,
Without thought,
Action absent from your motion.
Feel yourself bounding up,
Snatching that little fruit,
Even as the strands react to your presence and the flower referrals.
Closed tight,
It is still too slow,
These plants cautious in just what and whom they give their bounty to.
Smile softly,
Feeling the soft linen of the bag you carry,
Those few artifacts you still hold with you.
Gently settle this prize amongst them and resume your stance.
You have a little more time to practice.
This has been Moon Lemons,
A Blue Path meditation of the Fatal Neutrinos,
Stories of histories that weren't,
Futures that mustn't,
And places that cannot be.
Thank you for listening.
I hope your day is better,
A little more calm for it,
As well as hopefully a little surreal.
This is Easton,
And remember,
I am as much a work of fiction as anything you hear.
