I was holding my new iPad, my first iPad,
the one I got myself for my birthday.
I wanted one since a good decade
but I never knew what for.

But now –I thought– it might cheer me up
in the endless lockdowns.

So I stared blankly at the home screen
and asked myself:
What to do with it? Apart from reading books on it,
what should I do next?

I opened one of the drawing apps
that I got myself from the App Store
because
iPads are fun to draw on,
this much I knew. And I drew a few lines.

I enjoyed the colours, the brushes,
the way my new Apple Pencil 2 glided over the screen.
I enjoyed the lines, the curves,
the shapes that emerged.

I enjoyed how the colours blended together,
or stayed on top of each other,
blue and light blue
and dark blue
and yellow and red.

There’s brushes that look like pencils,
and fountain pens,
and calligraphy brushes,
wet and dry, old and new.
There’s spray paint, and fine lines,
and broad lines, and patterns,
and weird brushes that have funny names like
Honeyeater, Fever, Wedge Tail, Storm Bay.

Then I put my iPad aside and
lay down on my new carpet,
the soft one, the comfy one,
the one I got myself to replace the thin plastic mat.

I lay down on my belly and placed my palms on the carpet,
my right hand next to my right shoulder,
my left hand next to my left shoulder,
then I lifted and turned my head.

I enjoyed how my upper rib cage twisted and turned,
how my upper chest contracted and released,
first on one side, then on the other,
and how my shoulders responded.
Now I was the brush,
and I was the screen.

The subtle, surprising, and delicious feeling
of a freshly integrated area,
for example the upper chest
above the part where the thoracic spine meets the lumbar spine.
This can move?
I didn’t know this can move!
This can transmit?
I didn’t know this can transmit!
This can help?
I didn’t know this feeling of support!
It feels wonderful.

A refreshed feeling of trust,
in how everything works together,
the feet with the knees,
the legs with the chest,
the shoulders with the neck.

A refreshed feeling of trust, again,
being present, being aware, being healthy, enough.
I’m doing good. I’m doing well.
I trust in life itself.

A refreshed feeling of emotional security.
Feeling safe, feeling confident.
Right now
nobody is out there to get me.
I am safe. I am loved.
I am complete.

I am breathing freely,
as if a stone was taken off
from a long burdened chest.
The weight was in front,
it was in the back,
it was on both sides,
it was on top and below,
and now it is gone,
replaced with something better.
Now breathing is long,
and calm,
and shallow,
and full,
and nurturing,
and cleansing.
I might just become friends with the wind.

All that is easy to forget.
And easy to restore.

Lay down on your belly and wait,
for a moment,
for your breath,
for your heart.

And when all has come together,
when you are one,
when you are the one,
lift your head,
and see if you stick your neck out, or not.

Lay down on your belly and wait,
for your eyelids to fall,
for your shoulders to drop,
for the floor to catch you.

And when all has come together,
when you are at peace,
lift your head,
and feel the length of your neck,
the length of your spine, be long, belong.

I have not nailed down a definition of myself just yet.