Hey, Internet, it’s been awhile, hasn’t it? Yeah, well, I don’t know, I’ve just been feeling sort of profoundly silent lately. We got back from New York and I looked at all my photos and the inevitable caption-heavy post that ought to come out of them and I said, Nope, can’t do it. Cannot serve up my personal life for your entertainment at the moment.
I think it may have something to do with the ever-collapsing tunnel of time that is grief I’ve been walking through. Sure, blame it on DEATH. (If you’re just joining us, my dad died two months ago now — you can read all the fun here.) But I think an inevitable part of the emotional aftermath, for me, has been finally to allow myself to turn inward and just be quiet. It feels really good to just let yourself be sad sometimes. It’s a surprisingly physical sadness, too. It’s like the time I had that bike accident and smashed up my face (will you please remind me to tell you that story some time) — I was all stitched up and swollen and my whole head hurt, but I didn’t mind all that much. I took a bunch of self-portraits. I don’t know if I felt like I deserved to hurt for being so stupid, but I know I didn’t want a bunch of drugs to numb me out. Or maybe I have a high tolerance for pain. I do think there’s something satisfying about feeling beat up and sore, but I couldn’t tell you what without sounding like the seventh grade toughie who was always behind the gym trying to get her friends to play bloody knuckles (and holy shit, don’t click on that link unless you want to read all about the official world bloody knuckles association and buy a t-shirt). (Maybe I should add that my junior high version of bloody knuckles was based on balancing a comb on your opponent’s fist — do kids still walk around with combs in their back pockets, or was that hopelessly seventies? — which she held out in front of her, and then fast as you could trying to snatch the comb and drag it down between her knuckles. Play and repeat until someone starts bleeding. AWESOME.)
I’m also sore because yesterday I went back to yoga class for the first time since January. Since we just got back from our family vacation and I have to turn around next week and go back to Denver to help take care of my mom for two weeks, I have to be skipping BlogHer this year, and I was sad enough about that to decide to take that weekend and go on a yoga retreat (led by my esteemed friend Steve) instead and try to jump start my yoga practice again. But I didn’t want to commit yoga suicide by walking cold into three days of bending and chanting and whatever else Steve is going to make me do. Eat vegetarian food! Breathe! So yesterday I went in to practice with Steve’s wife, Michele. She didn’t sweat me, she knows I have commitment issues with yoga and have disappeared for long periods of time before only to reappear and work that much harder. So yesterday I got on my mat and said to myself, You are going to do this and you are not going to care what you look like not being able to touch your fucking toes. You are going to be sensible and do only what you can do, not what your ego tells you to do. At the end of my practice I really do believe it was my heart and not my ego that told me I should lift up into the ugliest, most potentially crippling backbend you’ve ever seen in your life.
Walking back to my car was a little tricky.
Actually, I think a little ibuprofen might be a good idea right about now.