The first two months of 2013 have been madness, and it shows no signs of slowing down any time soon.
I have been trying to make time for myself; trying to be as normal as possible. But we all know that my normal is normally kind of weird.
Nonetheless, last night, I went to a yoga class I love, taught by an instructor I really admire. I have mentioned ad nauseam that yoga has been challenging for me lately — between the mindfulness required to get through it, and the breathing, and the pressure it puts on my shoulder.
I have whined.
I have been The Poster Child for Yuppie Assholes Everywhere.
That said, I really like to practise hot yoga. So last night, I was sweating and trying to clear out my body and my mind while the instructor was guiding us through some shoulder-opening positions. Which was a special kind of hell, all things considered.
Then we got to the arm balances; the inversions.
And I was sort-of half-heartedly kicking my way into a handstand; not really thinking much of it. I haven’t been able to handstand since I was hit by that car; since The Accident in 2011. In fact, while I talk a good game about how much yoga I do, I haven’t been much of a yogi since 2011.
I have been Scared. I have been scared of hurting myself; afraid of breaking myself. I have been worried that something will hurt as bad as it did that day that I lay alone at Cornell Hospital trying to reach Bill, who was out at brunch with a young blonde who “made [him] smile.” I have been terrified that something will shatter me the way divorce did or Frederic did.
But I kicked, and kicked, and kicked with my breath — the very breath that was still a little painful; a little jagged on the in-and-exhalation.
And the next thing I knew, I was firmly upside down in a handstand.
In the background, Paul McCartney was playing. The tune was “Maybe I’m Amazed.”
So as it turned out, it had just been a matter of breathing. And kicking.
I’ve just got to keep breathing and kicking.