With early morning solo practice, the setting looks pretty peaceful, but sometimes it's a crabby, choppy, messy piece of work where I don't know what I'm doing or why exactly I'm out there and can't balance on one foot or remember where to begin. I laugh, or grumble. My body doesn't want to do forms. It does things that feel clunky and I tromp around with my pant cuffs soggy with dew. I want to keep showing up, so I give myself lots of permission to do what feels easiest, to be goofy or stand still or walk slowly, rewarding myself just for being there at all. The practice falls together, almost every time, from the clumsy wrestling with myself back eventually to formal movements, to some kind of synchrony of body mind sky seagulls tennis balls people cars dandelions trains and falling leaves, the cosmic wheels oiled and turning in softened symphony...