Grasping

There is a grasping deep in my chest. Where my sternum meets my stomach. A fist clinched to my soul holding me stable in the wind, and preventing me from flying.

A grounded tethering to existence.

A root grown through the rocky soil of past experiences.

Sometimes, in moments of wonder and awe, it loosens and feels like a gentle string, or a piece of yarn. Other times, during periods of fear or anxiety it’s more like a forceful retraction. Drawing my chest down, my chin in. Hunkering down for the storm.

It boxes in the breath.

It draws closer the emotion.

It’s my point of release, and yet my chain to the past.

This is my experience. My realization. All the ways I’ve villainized this grasping. All the ways I’ve victimized the grasped. Yet, all the ways it’s grounded me. Protected me from harm. Both internal and external.

My grasp is my lifeline, my diving board. This clutching is my opportunity, my presence.

I was never letting go.

I was already free.