Grumpy today. There has been a lump in my chest and I seem to be all angles and edges, sharp with people when things don’t go my way. It’s a number of things, not least of which is that it’s easy to write about yoga when the rhythm of your practice is going well, and much harder when it’s not.
For that matter, the writing practice is off as well. I had a taste, for a week, of living as an artist, working in the studio all day, being around other artists. I thrived. I also had a taste of the luxury of time to myself, time to think and read and go to sleep when I wanted to and feed only myself.
But I am a householder yogi. Three children and a husband and everyone wants to eat different things and go to bed at different times and project their emotional needs into the air we breathe whenever it pops into their heads. I love them, would be lost without them, but it has been hard, this re-entry into my family after a hiatus, and I can’t seem to find the balance between my needs and theirs. The artist in me is screaming for oxygen and oodles of time to play and explore. My sleeping schedule is way off and it has been hard to get up and practice in the morning, harder still to practice later and sometimes I just don’t practice at all. And then everything suffers. And I become all angles and edges, sharp with people when things don’t go my way.
But relief is on the way, school starts very soon and my youngest goes to kindergarten. Schedules will regularize and I will have time, precious time, this year, to work in the studio, to practice yoga and write about it all. For better or for worse.