Mantra #1

The key turns once in the lock.

Morning wind moves along the brick street, lifting small leaves from the curb and carrying them around my shoes.

I have my keys in one pocket and a folded page in the other. My phone stays on the table upstairs.

I button my rust-colored coat and pull my dark teal cap low against the wind.

The page has four soft creases. I unfold it beneath the light over the front step, place my thumb at the top, and read the first line aloud ~

“I live in a friendly universe that always has my back.”

I give the next line one full breath ~

I fold the page, put it in my pocket, and begin walking.

The words settle into my steps.

“I am healthy. I am clean. I am strong. I am calm.”

My arms swing loose at my sides. Cool air enters my nose and leaves through my mouth. My stride finds a steady length.

At the corner, the walk signal begins its countdown before I reach the curb. My stride lengthens for one step. Then I let it finish.

“I don’t rush. Everything I need arrives on time.”

The red hand appears. Morning traffic takes its turn through the intersection. I stand with both feet on the ground and watch the leaves gather against the opposite curb.

The white figure returns.

I cross.

Beyond the avenue, the street rises for three long blocks. I take the hill one square of pavement at a time.

“I let go of what weighs me down and rise. I trust myself. I follow through.”

The words lift my head. The hill lifts the rest of me.

“I own my life, and my power. I create my reality with courage, gratitude, and love.”

Near the top, the next sentence leaves me.

I keep walking for a few steps, listening for it. Then I stop beside a low stone wall and reach for the folded page.

The wind catches one corner.

My hand reaches after it.

The page jumps from my fingers, skims the wall, and sails toward a woman walking down the hill. She catches it against the railing with her palm.

“Got it,” she says.

She hands it back.

“Thank you.”

I smooth the page against the stone and find my place.

“Temporary defeat is not failure; it becomes a stepping stone. I begin again with wisdom.”

The woman continues downhill. I fold the page along its old creases and hold it lightly in one hand.

“I travel light. I welcome support. It is safe to receive. My needs matter and my needs are met.”

The morning carries the page and gives it back.

At the park gate, a drinking fountain stands beneath an oak. I press the button and bend toward the clear arc. Cold water touches my lips. I drink, raise my head, and wipe my chin.

The avenue below carries buses, bicycle bells, opening doors, and voices. Each sound has its own direction. I choose mine.

“I choose my response. My state is peace. Peace is my power.”

I place the folded page in my pocket.

“I breathe. I soften.”

Wind passes through the oak. Thousands of leaves turn their pale undersides to the sun, then settle green again.

I stand beneath them and let one quiet breath become another.

“Stillness brings clarity. I trust my inner knowing.”

My next turn feels simple. I take the long block home.

A shopkeeper sweeps his step. A child in a pink helmet circles her father on a small bicycle. The woman who caught my page is already far down the hill.

We move through the same morning. Our paths cross, open, and continue.

The last lines come more softly.

“I am deeply loved. I belong. My heart is open, and safe. I am enough.”

At my building, the same wind moves the same small leaves around my shoes.

I take out the page one last time. One crease is nearly worn through. I place my thumb across it and speak the final words at my own front door ~

“Right here, right now.

This moment is enough.

And so am I.”