I have not taken this long of a hiatus since this past November. It’s almost funny to me that, all through yoga teacher training and nutrition school (if my memory serves me, and perhaps I’m remembering myself as a more forthcoming Body Karma essay producer), I wrote weekly. Now I’ve graduated, am working full-time (7 days a week for the past few weeks, actually), I share something bi-monthly at most, it seems.
That might seem to make sense, being with the whole adulting, full-time career business, but to me, it’s surprising. I am not buried in textbooks and exams, why wouldn’t I be sitting down at least one evening a week to write?
I’ve discussed in recent posts how much more conservative I am with the direction my essays now go, and maybe that has something to do with the decline in publication frequency. I’m still completely and utterly willing to peel away the layers to reveal that uncomfortable, cringe-worthy “real life” stuff; because I believe it is the marrow of our existence, and the divine thread that connects us to one another. The threads of I am not alone, other people know what it’s like to grope helplessly through the shroud of darkness, and the ribbons of wow, I’m not the only one on this earth who doesn’t have my shit together, and even the moments of sweet, a reminder that it’s OKAY TO CHANGE MY MIND.
I’m still totally willing (and eager) to go there, because it’s the material that matters, that shifts and shapes our experiences, that has the potential to save us – even if it’s just me from myself.
But I no longer use this platform as a place to vent, like I once did. Not that anyone’s venting blog is wrong. It’s awesome. You do you. I just realized, I have always had a fierce need to cleanse my guilty conscience, since I was a very little girl (must be the Irish in me). As a child, I had to “get things off my chest” on an obsessively frequent basis (sorry Mom and Dad…seriously). If I didn’t, these thoughts would haunt and eat away at me. This morphed into an anxious and mildly OCD adult brain, one of which yoga has been the saving grace (because yoga is, ultimately, “the science of the mind” and the practice of regulating our thoughts).
It took a few years, but as I grew and evolved, I realized that laying out every detail of my self-discovery, self-reflection, and even self-doubt – from the ethics behind my diet, to my anxiety around shifting said diet, to my insecurities around living differently than others, to defending myself against negative experiences with unhappy people, to unraveling the reasons behind processes I’d never understood, to mending a broken heart with the written word – was becoming less cathartic and more uncomfortably vulnerable over time. Not uncomfortable in the “push yourself outside your comfort zone to really soar” sense. Uncomfortable in the “why did I just word vomit a journal entry to the entire inter webs?” sense.
Balance. Subtlety. Intuition.
These three basic concepts have shifted the way I write and, more importantly, the reason behind my writing. The driving force. I have messages to share, yes. We all do. I have survived, over the span of my 27 incredibly blessed years, some intensely shitty life experiences. We all have. I believe in sharing our trials and tribulations because it’s therapeutic for us, and also because it can help (SO much sometimes) others along the way (I have clung like a drowning monkey to other people’s blogs before because OMG THEY GET ME).
Not a one of us is “doing life” any better than the next. I am not failing by not pumping out a blog essay per week as I’d expected, in this year post-grad. I am not failing even if I never wrote again (…but in the words of Cher Horowitz, “AS IF!”). I’m okay with the fact that I’ve hibernated, linguistically, for the past few months. I’ve been navigating a lot of shit. Some of it intense and difficult, some of it absolutely amazing and all-consuming. So much has changed. There were many hard – albeit natural – changes last year, followed by an organic period of grief. Then came (and are still coming) the epic, “prayers answered and dreams-come-true” types of changes. I’ve been bobbing in the fluid waters of this growth, soaking it all in, experiencing it fully. I’ve even been journaling less than I was. Just really sitting with it all, wholly present.
I want to write about so much of it, too. I’ve just been overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of LIFE and its incredible, unpredictable, tangibly and intangibly exquisite nature. Its essence. I am floored by it on a regular basis. Amazed.
And I do have heaps I intend to write about, post-its filled with ideas, scribblings of essays waiting to be. A book in the wings. Blogs brimming with vulnerable material, the mundane, and everything in between. I have so much work to do in the realm of the body positive movement, writing about my experiences as a teenager; I have so much interest in sharing how very real and, oftentimes, ungraceful it is to be human, and connecting with others over the sheer beauty and absurdity of it all. I have so much interest in writing about my processes, whether people care about them or not, because it’s therapy for me, it’s art, it’s passion. Words placed on the page function in my spirit are like paint on the canvas, or musical notes in the air, or a waltz across a stage. For me, it doesn’t matter where it goes, how often it’s put out into the cosmos, or even how it’s received (well, that part’s not true, but the disregard for others’ opinions is always a work in progress, no?). For me, it’s about the art. The transformation. The bits that transcend time, space, even human opinion and experience. Because everything is in flux. Always changing. Ever fluid. May we always have the dignity and courage to flex with it, to ride the tides, and to trust the timing.