Bang-up job beating the crap out of myself the past couple days. Negative self-talk and self-doubt that stings like the snap of a wet towel to the ass.
Buddhist psychology says "What we think is what we become,” a message my Thursday morning power yoga instructor opened class with. She related how her “birthday month” (love she claims it) got her thinking of the past year, leaving her a bit stuck on loss and hurtful events, leaving energy there.
I was unhappy lying there in a supine posture, deep breathing and trying to focus on melding muscles and strings of tendons to mind and intention. I didn’t like my body; in a down dog glance I saw not strong legs and shapely, fully functioning thighs but thickness and weight. My poses for the next hour were weak and shaky and I just wanted to be done. During inversions I sat for a long time in child’s pose even when encouraged to, “Try something, play. Do a posture that makes you feel strong, or something you fear. “ I silently scolded my Buddha belly and arms too full and round to reach around to bind hand to hand.
Last night when he held me naked from behind, tucked into the stacked spoons we take before rolling out and adjusting into sleep, I felt his hand on wobbly flesh. How can he find that sexy?
I’ll again embrace and appreciate my physical power and strength, stop the beginners’ bad habit of looking around and judging. I’ll frog stand on my head again, hold a fully branched, strong and rooted tree. I’ll be held again and it will feel sexy and warm. Again.
A silver and white cat with beautiful, goofy blue eyes that cross has been coming around this week. He’s declawed, mostly clean and vocal, hungry for both food and attention. I fed him so now he comes every day, all day, and creates chaos for Sadie the feral cat. Today he found his way up an easy tree limb and down into my fenced private patio (Sadie’s domain) where he stayed, regardless of my half-dozen-plus attempts to physically remove him. Later he shit on the patio. I felt anger welling up as I worked to write copy and set up schedules and update my laptop and take a call from the boss, all interrupted every 15 minutes or so by growling and crying, hissing and the threat of territory fighting. Later he pissed on the patio. I threw a glass of water at him in a final bid for peace. He ran off but returned tonight, this time to be shooed with a broom, the fear in his eyes palpable, the crouched running on low legs. I won by teaching him to fear me. Later I watched a video of a friend who is a storyteller tell a Jewish folk tale about meditation and fear and the “what if’s” that feed the chatter in our monkey minds. What if that cat physically hurt Sadie? What if the damn thing keeps coming back to bother me? What if I really am the fucking cat lady?
Hard punch in the face for the hypocrite who claims to love animals but balks at the inconvenience
I put flyers up in the neighborhood, first asking his owner (should he have one) to reconsider day-and-evening-long roaming for his safety and to inquire if anyone’s pet had gone missing. Tomorrow, should he return, I'll pet him and offer kibble if he's hungry and find him a home or shelter if no one is looking for him. Because I can’t not.
The job I have, the work I do, is both easy and handsomely rewarded. I can do it with one eye elsewhere most days. I’m good at it and know I’d be better if challenged but I smell the same sock in a different shoe. How meaningful is what I produce? My own creativity flows constantly, like a spigot, but gets tied up in lazy, tired fingers at the end of the day. I envy bloggers whose words have birthed books and sometimes think mine are better. Because I think I’m a real writer. Maybe I’m not. Maybe I’m talented or seeking approval or merely lucky or comfortable or just a copy editor. Maybe all of it. Maybe none.
Swift upper cut to the jaw, taste a little blood in my mouth
What if I believe in what I am, in strength and real beauty, in lust and who cares for me, in compassion and the artist? What if I ask for and feel a healing kiss on fresh bruises.
What if instead of hitting out I find small grace?