I am slowly.... very very slowly... limping my way into a new lifestyle. I am not proceeding with any consistency and speed does not appear to be my goal.
Since starting this blog I've failed more times than I've succeeded and taken more steps backwards than forwards. It's nearly enough to convince a person to stop attempting any type of forward motion. And yet I'm plodding on, secure in the knowledge that somewhere, somehow, all of this adds up to progress. Maybe progress doesn't have to be forward progress to be counted as success - maybe while you're living it, it seems like backtracking, but in the end you find you've come a great distance? I'm waiting for that revelation because right now, I feel like I've been on a giant treadmill of life, never moving, never stopping and I'm not even losing any weight.
I've been going to yoga twice a week. Anyone who has ever seen me take a yoga class is laughing right now. I have all the grace of a wounded elephant and half the flexibility. When I am asked to gracefully move from one pose to the next, the room is filled with heavy breathing and grunting as I attempt to move my body in ways it cannot move. I don't usually feel like a big bulky person. I mean yes, I would like to lose weight, I've been thinner, but for the most part, my body feels like it's proportionate. Until I begin my yoga practice at which point every part of my body (including my wrists and toes) feels bloated and bulky. A strange new gravity sets in and I find that I can no longer lift my leg in any normal way. Everything hurts. I've been sore for days on end.
Did I mention I've only been doing this for about 2 weeks in a row? I haven't even been doing it very long and already it's harder then I can handle.
But I am determined to have this be the one thing I stick with. I have to stick to something eventually right? I want to quit pretty much all of the time. Halfway through class I am convinced that this is the last time I will go. I'm horrified at the thought that it will take months for me to be better at yoga, years before it's all easy second nature. And yet, I have gone back. I have done my breathing. I have in no way dug deeper to find any hidden reserves of strength, nor have I had any epiphany, I'm just stubbornly refusing to give this up. I've scheduled it into my day.
I've also been writing every Sunday like it's my job. I schedule writing time and I go to a tea shop and I push through even when I hate it. Even when it feels way too hard. Even when I forget why I ever liked writing. The end of my novel is finally finally in sight. It's miserable and invigorating all at once. Which is pretty much be the story of my life.
So yeah, progress. Slow. Miserable. Progress. Maybe all that time on the treadmill was getting me ready for this. Maybe now that I've practiced some stationary movement I can sprint ahead with some forward motion because my body is ready and trained. Maybe that treadmill metaphor was actually apt.
And maybe I will make it to yoga tomorrow, despite the fact that in the last few hours I have come up with 3 very good excuses for not going.
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