working through the rust

This getting back in the writing saddle isn’t easy. It’s creaky. It’s strange. It’s uncomfortable when writing used to flow like breathing.

I’m rusty.

Tentative.

Nervous.

Having said that, I’m relatively sure it’s all in there, waiting to be given space again.

My writing voice, which my kids say is remarkably like my talking voice and that’s what makes it so good (this unsolicited observation is one of endless reasons I’m eternally grateful to be their mother) was on hiatus for a long time. I’m not used to accessing this part of me.

I’ve been feeling so badly about myself lately—actually for a long time—about how little I’ve accomplished since my last book came out 3 years ago. But yesterday this mini refrigerator light bulb went off. All the things I thought were filler, were time fillers, were not significant enough to give credit to were actually all necessary to get me to here, a place where I’m ready to tackle something big on my own.

With FLOW I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know how to stand up for myself. To be heard and respected. To value my own opinion and worthiness. I let myself be treated like a light weight, a fluff ball, an intellectual subordinate. I gave myself no credit for who I was in the process and allowed the denigration of all I brought to the project to take over.

That destroyed my creative soul for awhile.

And I couldn’t put myself out there again.

Turns out I was putting myself out there in different ways. Building confidence, composure, conviction in who I am and what I do.

Donating a kidney was all about bravery and selflessness. Looking at a bigger picture and putting someone else first. Staring into the unknown and not running away.

Running a PTA was all about leadership and vision. Communication and organization. Creating systems and forging new paths. 

Being a more present mother was all about attention and focus. Living in the moment. Love. Empathy. Understanding. Instead of being so wrapped up in the side projects I always had going on I was able to be a better part of my family.

I’m feeling a little flow. Not much. This isn’t effortless like it used to be. I’m editing and revising as I type instead of letting it pour out with ease.

But that’s ok.

It’s still here.

Now it’s time to nurture it a bit.

day 2: ideas flowing

Menopause. Kidneys. Crazy inventions.

I'm finally in a place where I can imagine delving, diving back into a project. There were so many things to write flowing through me today but I never got to put words to keyboard.

That though, isn't my 40 day goal.

Tomorrow I start the day writing.

put one foot in front of the other

I stopped writing. Abruptly screeched to a halt something that had become meaningful and personal and enriching and sustaining.

I only started writing on a regular basis about a month or so before Flow, my last book was published. More than once I'd been asked what my writing practice was and I was ashamed to admit I didn't have one.

I felt like a phony. In spite of this big book, my dream project, about to hit shelves everywhere, I didn't consider myself a writer.

So I started writing. I set myself up with a 40 day challenge and it was hard. I'd grapple with ideas, struggle with sentences, debate whether or not I should it the publish button on this blog.

Was anything I had to say worth it? Would anyone care? Would people realize I was faking this author thing and call me out on it?

But I kept writing.

I wrote the experience of sending a dream project out into the world. The thrill, the excitement, the despair, the crushed hopes, the frustration of it not doing well, the yearning it would do better.

As that came to a close I was lost about what next. But I kept writing, often about just that.

Then I donated a kidney and my subject matter and reason for being melded again. I had purpose and substance and meaning.

I wrote that journey from even before I knew it was starting through the months and months of anxiety and joy and endless unknowns.

After that I froze. I was healing. My brother was doing great. But I couldn't write anymore.

I couldn't feel.

I couldn't create.

I couldn't breathe.

I was petrified at the most basic of levels and didn't know how to get out.

But I'm feeling that perhaps in all that time writing had become a lifeline and I'd been denying myself a vital outlet. That expression is necessary. That even when no else one is listening, it's important to hear yourself.

So I'm starting at the very beginning. One step at a time. 40 days of putting words down, of thinking, of feeling, of crying, of creating. And then who knows.

rolling oms

After chanting final oms during a yoga class last week, sun glowing through shimmering orange curtains, walls dancing vibrant sunset hues, I thought about how many times I’d be there. Not exactly there as in color, time and space, but how many times I’d been sitting up from final rest, stretching my arms over my head, breathing easier than I had been an hour or so before.

The numbers started coming together in my head.

I’ve been practicing at Laughing Lotus for seven and a half years. That in it self made me stop and ponder for a moment. Back then I’d been taking classes at my gym but knew it was time to take the next step. Or, as it felt to me at the time, jump off the yoga cliff. I’d decided to try all the studios in my neighborhood—there are many—and started at Laughing Lotus.

I never went anywhere else.

I’d found my home.

My first class had been in that same studio. Gods and goddesses radiating from murals on brightly painted walls. Sunlight streaming through enormous windows. Soundtracks that inspired and made me laugh. The thing, one thing, about Laughing Lotus is that I laugh. Often. Not something I thought came with a yoga practice but to me flowing and laughing go together.

They get it.

Anyway, back to numbers. I practice a minimum of twice a week. Which is 100 classes or so a year. Of course there are vacations, and injuries (shoulder, wrist), a surgery, sick kids. But, I generally practice more. 3 or 4 classes a week much if not most of the time.

Which, at the very minimum, brings me to over 1000 classes.

One. Thousand. Classes.

That’s a lot of yoga.

That’s a lot of chanting, breathing, moving, stretching, learning, growing, flowing.

I thought about how much more comfortable I am in my skin. About how I now move with grace in my practice when I used to be self conscious and stuck. About how easily I can do a headstand in the middle of the room when that wasn’t even a remote possibility when I started.

About how I sing loud and true instead of feeling uncomfortable and unsure.

About how much this practice has saved me when I didn’t even realize it.

About where I’d be if I didn’t take care of myself this way.

About how yoga is more than time on the mat.

About how far I’ve come.

About how far I still have to go.

About how grateful I am for the here and now.

Namaste to all my teachers—every class has been a blessing.

change is in the air

2012 has been about change.

Moving on.

Letting go.

It's not easy. But, it's often inevitable.

In the next few weeks I'll be leaving two communities I've had such strong ties to for so long. Jack is graduating from 5th grade—we've been part of PS41 for 9 years. And Iz is graduating middle school. I've been PTA president there for almost 3.

People I've seen every morning will no longer be part of daily routine. In fact, my daily routines which have been set in stone for almost as long as I can remember will be over in 2 plus weeks.

Change.

I'm not embracing it. But I'm working hard not to be frozen by it.

For me that's a huge step.

going positive - day one

It's been a long time since I've written on a regular basis. There are many reasons for this.

Otherwise known as explanations.

Or excuses.

I'm thinking/feeling it's time to leave them in the past.

The challenge is that much of my blogging/writing has been angst-ridden. Venting. Emotional vomiting (a friend shared that term—pretty brilliant).

I don't want to do that anymore. While what I'm feeling may not be all that different than before, it's not what I want to put out in the world.

I'm going positive. And am hoping that writing it will help me be it.

Could be these posts will be exceedingly short. Incredibly challenging. Different than anything I've done.

But it's time to flow. To let my creative self back into circulation.

To go positive. One day at a time.

I'm committing to 40 days of this and then?

We shall see.

writing

This is the 4th post I've started tonight. I'm not as comfortable as I used to be spilling my guts and angst and emotional anorexia into cyberspace.

I've grown.

Or perhaps I've shut down.

I'm in a different place though and while I know I want to get back to writing I'm not sure what my door in will be.

Perhaps it's not blogging. Perhaps this go round it's actually working on a project. 

I haven't done that in so long. 

Flow came out almost 3 years ago and that experience changed me. For the better in some ways but not all. I was so burnt so abused so shut up so stifled I lost my voice and my drive to start something new. 

Maybe I lost it forever. 

Or maybe I'm just scared. Scared that there's nothing there. 

I know that's not true. I have plenty of good ideas to work on. But nothing that's driving me. 

Maybe that's the difference this time. I have to make it happen from a different place. A saner place a calmer, more rational place. Flow was a nightmare in so many ways and I'm thinking perhaps the fear of repeating that experience has kept the door locked.

It doesn't have to be that way again. 

Right?

Right. 

I'm making a commitment to myself to write every day for 40 days. Doesn't have to be blogging. Could be writing, working, conceptualizing, researching. 

Creating. 

Maybe all this angst will disappear when I let myself flow again.

Baby steps.

One day at a time.

Here I go.