Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for the ‘warrior’ Category

A book would feel better. Something that requires my eyes and not my hand, these hands that seem incapable of sense or beauty, of holding anything, of completing thoughts.

With a lowered gaze my eyes wouldn’t betray what a stalled hand shows. Lack of movement, of invention. In that stillness the absence of intimacy, of connection. Tip to fiber stains the page in blue with unintelligible marks, poor penmanship, lost life & memories. Only remnants remain.

You are, maybe, a writer I write to myself just before sleep.

The next night, I refine my previous statement. You are, mostly, a writer, because it’s high time I assert some control over the ability to self-define. I walk and ride my bike to get familiar with self-propelling forward motion.

Then I tell myself you are a writer because I’m trying to practice maitri. I am trying to say to myself that I forgive you. I am trying to encourage this one small ounce of faith that has yet to extinguish, even if it’s fake it ’til you make it.

Walking home from the store, stinging behind my eyeballs from a this darkness that has re-enveloped me, born of a terror I’ve yet to name or befriend, your voice. A sweet imprint on an answering machine, across miles. To say hello. Been busy but all is well. Looking forward to some time off next week. A sweetness that will always be. And for a moment it is all so simple. The next moment it is mixed with tears from missing two amazing friends.

You are a writer. This is not decided by the New York Times or The Sun or that anthology you haven’t heard back from. It is not decided by the people who think you should definitely not get an MFA or the people who don’t invite you to interview for a job that you know you would absolutely kick ass at. It isn’t even determined by the one person who loves you most of all, who refuses to let you on the computer without insisting on “watch da whales jumping.”

Another two days pass. Sob wet confessions behind closed doors, absent of logic or rationale. Touch on the old, older, oldest. The lies I believe over and over again without realization. Some of the strings that keep me trapped, tied up in the past-never-to-be-future. My mistrust of all things shines through and illuminates an even still deeper fear that although I’ve come to whisper it time to time out loud (and only to a paid professional) I can only touch for a moment at a time. One breathe at a time then hold the rest.

And suddenly that fire that was consuming me is like smoke. It is long and dark and trailing, its toxins soaked deep within my skin and organs, but smoke nonetheless. Transparent patches. I feel its heat and thickness but walk right through it, still unsure if I’ll ever find the clearing.

In yoga with a new teacher, I find my Warrior after months of it feeling gone. I move consciously from a diagonal lunge, with intention, into Warrior III without using my hand. My foot firmly planted, stable on the earth. My leg shakes like nothing I’ve ever felt – a tremor rising from the inside, up and outward – but I am steady. Prana. I glide into Standing Split, light touch to the floor. We rise, Exhalted. I am still steady. In transition. Prana revealed.

Advertisements

Read Full Post »

Breathing into the sidewaist, outstretched, shoulders back, all I want to do is draw boundaries around everything. First I just want to cordon off my roads, then obscure all passes. Obliterate my landscape. Rest deep inside the numbness, unseen. Unknown.

I want to unmake the map.

Instead, I uncover some unhealed pieces. Through these sides that surround my core, I feel armor chip off.

“I lost my warrior,” I admit in yoga class. “I had it for years, and now it’s gone.”

“It’s not gone,” AP assures me, “you’re warrior’s probably in transition.” She looks at the other women in the room and asks if anyone else has gone through this. You start practice and it’s a challenging pose. Then you really find it, and it’s easy. Then it transitions and it’s challenging again. They all nod, some laugh gently.

If you’ve ever been divorced, or became any type of parent, or lost your job in a fucked economy or your house, maybe you’ve had the experience of thinking transition is total bullshit, a lie people tell you so you’ll just buck up, or to alleviate their own fears. Or it feels like a false promise you fall for again and again. Or maybe that’s just my view on this particular day of this particular month.

But I work with it in these untouched sides of my body. I let my teacher readjust my heel, the length of my stance, my hip points. I flow through the movements as if they can erase lines, erase meanings, make me visible. I wonder what it is like to feel beautiful. I think about miles and cannot remember the route I walked home yesterday or exactly where Vermont is on a map.

I wonder who I am really trying to protect, OWL or me?

Read Full Post »

%d bloggers like this: