My posts have been spotty of late, and my critical mind wants to lament and wail about my lack of discipline. Then the practical adult in me recounts what I’ve been doing with my days and nights and counters the critic with Now just where do you think we’d find the time to write when we’re not even getting enough time to sleep? The critic then makes it a bad thing to change my routine, to have a different schedule. It’s addicted to feelings of shame, anxiety, and unworthiness. It’s saying I need to go back to the way things were. But things aren’t the way they were. Not even a little. Things have changed. I am glad about that. I am a part of all things, even though my ego would tell me I am separate. I have changed too. I am glad about that. I don’t need to feel guilty for changing, for adopting a different routine, for using my time in different ways. Therefore, I am glad to write when I can, and not a minute before. (Takes a deep breath and lies down on the floor, looks out the window at a puffy, white cloud floating in the blue sky, relaxes and sighs.)
I don’t know if it’s a sign of exhaustion or apathy, or straight up resistance, but lately I haven’t been as consistent with my writing as I was in the past… My inner perfectionist is horrified. My inner critic is sneering. My inner child is sad. Oh well. I’m writing now. I’m writing now. And this moment is good enough.
Feeling a little lost, out of sorts these days. I couldn’t be bothered to write the last few nights… what has happened to me? I return a bit sheepishly, feeling guilty for dropping my routine; it’s been the one thing that has held me up through the transition into single motherhood. I remember the wisdom of my teachers. Begin where you are. Only this moment matters. You’re doing fine. You are enough, just as you are, right now. My mind loves to point out that although I can articulate my teachers’ wisdom, I’m not necessarily so great at embodying it. Oh well. That’s why we practice. We remember that we can keep trying, again and again and again.
This is for last night when I sidled home after having shared some bourbon and a bottle of pinot noir with my neighbors and I discovered neither my brain activity nor my motivation were substantial enough to compose poetry. Just know I THOUGHT about writing… and isn’t it the thought that counts?
I’m a writer, have been since elementary school. I’m grateful I can wield my pen and my words and my voice intentionally, and share what’s going on with me in a way that engages others to share their stories with me. I’m grateful I was taught to read and write. I’m grateful I can create worlds in my mind and assign words to the worlds in a way that will paint vivid pictures in your mind. Words are power, like wind is power, and fire is power, and water is power, and love is power. May the fact of my sharing help one person know that they aren’t alone. May these words written from my heart reach out into the world and make it a more loving place!
This is the third time I’ve attempted to write this poem. It just isn’t coming out as I expected. I guess this means I’m human, and I guess it means I’m alive. Just wondering when I can ever be satisfied with myself as I am, life as it is; just wondering when I can drop the bs perfectionism bit, and just relax already.
Still searching for the book that has the answers… I search in ooks on self-love, books on forgiveness, books on leadership, business, emotional intelligence, magic. I read and I read and I read. I keep searching for that one piece of information that will save me. Then it occurs to me, Maybe the book I need to read is the one I need to write.
Forward progress made, now I just need to keep the momentum, stay clear, focused, intentional in my choices. I stood up for myself and my kids today, and we reached a resolution that’s workable. I breathed, meditated and prayed today. I wrote in my journal, drew a mandala, performed japa with my mala, chanting the mantram SAT NAM… I diffused lavender and frankincense essential oils, created a mini altar with an LED candle, a rose quartz heart, and pictures of my kids; I listened to music, danced, did yoga… That mediation room probably never saw so much action! Now to keep taking action on behalf of myself and my kids, moving forward, remembering what matters. As I say goodbye to my marriage a whole new life awaits. World, here I come!
Hi everyone. I arrived back in Maryland on July 31 after a wonderful trip to Colorado where I was taken care of in every way by a dear friend who knows what I’ve been through this past year. I felt really good and positive for about a week, but then real life came crashing down on me, and I’ve been dealing with the depression and anxiety again.
As I’ve been paying closer attention to my daily routine—of which this blog has been a part for the last five and a half years—I’ve been asking myself what kind of value my posts here are to others. If I’m writing my daily poetry and focusing on what is wrong, I believe that I’m contributing to an atmosphere of sadness and anger on planet earth. This is not what I want for me, you, or for this blog.
So I’ve been really wondering what kind of value I can add to anyone’s life here on Yoga Mom. Can I focus more on yoga? Can I share breath work techniques, yoga poses? Can I talk about mindful parenting?
I’m not sure what shape I want the blog to take at this point, but I’m absolutely open to any ideas that you’d like to send my way. I started off the blog for myself, as a means to find the self-expression that had felt so hampered in the midst of raising young children and being in what I’ve come to realize was a highly abusive marriage. I never expected to have people actually following my posts and reading my words, but now with over a thousand followers I feel it is my social obligation to focus on what is good and real and true in life, instead of on what is bringing me down.
If you have any thoughts or ideas about how I can do that here, I’m all ears.
Allowing my creativity to flow
without making a big deal about it…
No pressure, not trying to impress anyone,
just trying to save my own life
through color, texture, and the freedom
to bring my inner world outside
where it can dance, breathe,
and be painted into being.
I never knew that such simplicity
could yield salvation,
but here I sit feeling grateful
to have another day
to pick up my pen, my brush,
and remember the voice
that quietly speaks within me.