Hop scotch is making a comeback, and I have a new pen pal.
Writing to pen pals is better than writing in my journal. I am not so self-centred or whiney.
My new pen pal just started practicing Ashtanga Yoga. Before that, she was practicing a style of yoga that didn’t make her body sexy enough. Although she has only been doing Ashtanga for two weeks, she says that her butt has already began to disappear. She worries that soon her rear end will be completely flat. And her arms are so “stupidly weak” that chaturanga is impossible. Well, she is quite a hoot.
Writing to pen pals is better than writing in my journal. I am not so self-centred or whiney.
My new pen pal just started practicing Ashtanga Yoga. Before that, she was practicing a style of yoga that didn’t make her body sexy enough. Although she has only been doing Ashtanga for two weeks, she says that her butt has already began to disappear. She worries that soon her rear end will be completely flat. And her arms are so “stupidly weak” that chaturanga is impossible. Well, she is quite a hoot.
 |
| Me in Chaturanga, some time ago... |
The next morning, instead of my usual geriatric routine, I
did an incredibly slow version of serene and receptive Sun Salutations. Just
the first kind, Surya Namaskar A. No pain. Perhaps that is my limit because
yesterday, I tried Surya Namaskar B. Even with modifications, my hip got all
clicky, as though it was jammed in the wrong place. As I have done so many
times over the last few years, I pressed my hand against the outer edge of my
left knee. The horrendous and upsetting noise erupted. Gross.
Kino in Surya Namaskar A
I just don’t think this will go so well when I’m eighty. Or
thirty-two. Oh well. Surely the path doesn’t stop here. People go on and on
about the importance of committing to one system, one form. Keep dabbling and
you’ll dig a lot of holes, but you’ll never hit water. Maybe we just need to
make our holes a little wider.
My pen pal wanted to hear all about my spiritual
achievements from last week’s three-day stint at vipassana. Something
relatively sincere came out of me:
“Well, I don't know about spiritual achievements. It sounds
trite and cheesy, but I think that the best thing we can hope for is radical
self-love and acceptance, flat ass, stupid chaturanga and all. These practices
are hard. The perfect form is deep inside you. If this perfection remains
forever deep, so be it. Lift the corners of your mouth, and try to have a nice
time.”
My ex-ex boyfriend Simon who jumped off a building used to
say: “Deep down we’re all good people. But very very deep. On the surface,
Assholes.”
These days, I am not so filled with jokes. My heart feels
heavy. But love is somewhere. One of my dearest friends has a very new baby.
Earlier this week I figured out how to bounce and squat him to sleep. Then I
lay on my friend’s bed and he slept on my chest for twenty minutes. When I got
up, my face glowed and my heart felt warm. My friend said the baby can do this
because his heart has never been broken.
There are a lot of broken hearts out there. Broken hearts,
missing limbs, and airplanes.
There are also a lot of babies.
The End.
