I attended a yoga class where a few minutes at the end were planned for journaling. The night before the class, I was so excited by this idea that I carefully packed my notebook and pen in my tote bag so I wouldn’t forget them as I sleepily made my way to the early morning session.
As I moved through the poses, I kept distracting myself with thoughts of what I would journal about later. This caused me to lose my balance or miss instructions. Not the intended effect, I am sure. I thought about my obsessions. I obsess over things, people, and relationships, and I realize that that gets in the way of acting and being.
I tried to blame myself for obsessing, but then another lesson sprang up right away: to try being a soft, yet strong, teacher to myself and see where I get to when I do that. Will I find freedom and turn my obsessive thoughts into intuitively divined manifestations that inspire and tickle others’ fancies? Maybe.
My obsessions bloom like trees. Some perennial, some evergreen, and some seasonal. But nothing is really evergreen. It’s just a matter of time.
I have been savoring and carving more time for movement and connection. I meet friends where we talk about big and small ideas. Histories, traumas, love, and a little gossip. We drink tasty concoctions, not always alcoholic. We nibble. I am reluctant to admit that it has been a very long time since I did this regularly as a mother. I was (unwillingly) a little isolated. I am fond of many people, but too shy to act on it. But I am making new friends who are not shy! I have felt ecstatic, even audibly squealed all to myself a few times, as if a long, slowly depleting fast has been broken.
It is summer. Soupy air, sudden cooling showers, drippy heat. Fireflies! My heart is ripe, messy, juicy, bright, and deep pink. Stone fruit season. Crushed ice with rose syrup.
We decided to stay put this season, so I am investing time, energy, and money into various homes - my body, our space. I am strengthening my body while also making cosy spaces to curl into and read books or past issues of The New Yorker. There are sensations from past summers that reside in me. I am tapping into these without wanderlust but still with mild obsession. I have been thinking about the fruits we carried with us to the beaches over the years.
