I've been watching goldfinches this morning, scarlet cheeks and the brightest yellow flashes on wings.

They've been bobbing about in my unkempt lawn.

I'm not sure what they have found to nibble on, but it's put a hiatus into my gardening plans because there's an

undoubted need for more wild spaces and my neglect seems to be gifting them in some way (and gifting me with the pleasure of watching them).

I wonder about wild spaces in my practice.

The places where I can allow the unconscious to move through the spontaneity of unconventional forms and patterns, disregarding certain rules or expectations with abandon.

Current conversations might challenge me about whether this is "yoga" and I will say, call it what you will, but when consciousness stirs my cells it flows like a river and naming it won't stop it.

Is that disrespecting the roots of my practice?

I care about that question, but does consciousness care?

These are things I think about, and read about, and talk about, but somehow I find the discourse beings to clip and dull my wings, I risk losing my bright flashes and then it's time for me to return to the margins where the wild things grow.

I would love to live Like a river flows, Carried by the surprise Of its own unfolding.

— John O’Donohue