Into the Woods
Is it always “or”
Is it never “and”
– The Baker’s Wife, Sondheim.
I’ve forced myself to run. Forced myself to move through the morning asanas. I’ve had a good breakfast for the first time in weeks: real eggs and homemade salsa, instead of a plastic cup of protein powder and tap water. And still I have to force myself to sit up straight at the desk. And force myself to write.
These days staying healthy is taking all the discipline I have. And then some.
Take a deep breath. Shoulders down. Let the back expand.
I am ten again and swimming in a spring somewhere in Nevada. And matter how bright the sun is shining on the surface, cold currents bite at my ankles, like tiny monsters.
These are deep days. I believe most writers will admit to being seduced by their own darkness: when everything appears flat, the tug of anxiety and the welling of tears from somewhere unknown can actually be a comfort: there is still a bit of dimension, a form of sorts.
And tiny monsters can be muses. Unreliable, but they tap you on the shoulder just before you wake, and they whisper things to make your heart beat hard enough to force you to take notice: Your heart is beating.
I’m never more in touch with everyone I’ve ever been, than when I’m on the edge of drowning. All memories are comforting memories, seen from at least one perspective. So knowing this too will pass is a comfort–and not.
In the photos I take on hikes, the light and the shadow interplay, but is it difficult these days to experience both at once.
To engage with one, without losing sight of the other.