Doused in doses of DayQuil from a plastic cup, for one thing (although I’m feeling better now), and dimmed by the slow, dull deadening of routines, routines, routines. Beyond that, there hasn’t been much to report, which always makes me feel like this reflects a character deficit on my part. I could detail the sundries of a restless Sunday: the fact that it’s eighties weekend (eighties meaning herein Phil Collins, Huey Lewis and the News, and, in a redemptive moment, Blondie) on the radio station Supercuts was blaring this afternoon (Mix 106.5?); that I vacuumed for the first time in about a month; that, as part of a desperate search for something (and also because I have until February to use up the remaining two classes—make that one class—on my pass), I went to a yoga class for the first time since commencing this most recent stint of gainful employment.
This class was my introduction to Kundalini yoga, and it was more of a staged event than a class. I’m pleased to report that Kundalini yoga (or at least this instructor’s interpretation thereof) has an acute sense of the absurd, manifesting in a sing-along, the presence of a gong, an—I poop you not—interpretive dance segment (my specialty), and a whistling segment (which was awkward, since I never learned how to whistle—not that I went along with the chanting or sing-along segments either). I'm also pleased to report that I do believe (my conscientious objection to choice portions of the class notwithstanding) I did not commit any yoga fouls this time around, although I suppose this is anti-climactic with respect to blogging purposes.
I’ve been feeling deeply restless lately, trapped in a holding pen of sorts, a feeling that has defined far too much of my adult life to far too great an extent. I’m not sure what the answer is, or if this is even something to be viewed in terms of a “question” that has an “answer”. The novel is necessarily shelved until February—I already want to go back to it, but I need the critical distance that only comes with time so I can make a decision about whether to push forward or move on to something else. Everything else is up in the air, and is apt to be for—well, I don’t know how long, exactly, and that’s making me a little nuts. There again, I guess nothing’s ever certain, is it?
Meanwhile, I’m trying to sustain my own momentum and remain focused on the goals at hand, with a mind toward hatching longer term goals, but all of this only goes so far toward abating this overriding sense of simultaneous flailing and paralysis, and a certain feeling of being, well, rudderless. Like many things, this isn’t, at its heart, particularly complicated. Difficult, yes—and it’s easy to equate the two. But the fundamentals are pretty straightforward; as this post has already generated enough navel lint to make a navel lint poncho (shut up, that metaphor is not awkward), it will suffice to say that a certain amount of focused waiting is required at the moment: the sort that balances the art of watching, holding still, and being patient with that of acting, moving, and not wasting any more precious time. Surely, this balance can be achieved, and surely this is a valuable exercise, even if it is to an extent an exercise in floundering. Maybe it’s a matter of learning to flounder with grace and aplomb, of learning to appreciate this unflagging restlessness as a sign of health, of being alive, of being ready for the next project, the next challenge, the next bevy of new experiences.
We shall see.
Meanwhile, it’s time for leftover mushroom risotto and zinfandel.
Also, I’m looking forward to seeing Bob Schneider at Antone’s this Saturday.
And maybe, for the time being, that’s enough.
No comments:
Post a Comment