Writing about my life and yoga.

This must be what writer's block feels like - like starting a million posts and then feeling like none of them are good enough to finish.

I'm tired of not writing because I don't know how to get the words down before someone wakes up, or needs a cracker.

So this morning I woke up determined to write.  I tried my hand at a number of old posts, but just couldn't hit the end-all "publish" button at the top of the screen.  Which is so unlike me.  I usually have no problem publishing things that I only feel half-crazy about.

So I googled "writing prompts".

The first place I went only had prompts relating to zombies and monsters.  Which is cool, but not really my style, if you know what I mean.  I still don't truly understand what zombies are...and I used to be an art teacher. I've seen a lot of zombie artwork in my day.

Then I found a page that had all sorts of deep-thinking prompts like, "What is the most difficult decision you've ever made?" which doesn't suit me since I don't make difficult decisions.  That's part of my problem, even big decisions aren't usually difficult because I don't overthink ANYTHING.  I'm an "all-in from day one" kind of girl.  Which might be part of the problem with my life.  Maybe I should write about why I need to think things through... but that sounds boring.

Then I found one I could live with. "Name ten things you would buy with your last $20."
And I'm just going to assume that my kids are well fed and have diapers for the month.  I'm going to assume this is my $20 to spend after tithing and taxes and paying off the hit man.
My twenty dollars...


Good heavens, I can't think of a thing.  I thought that would be so easy.  My writer's block has even reached into the realms of a simple shopping trip. 

Let's try another..."Begin with the sentence "Today I will..." and write for twenty minutes."

Here it goes for real...

Today I will sit here and write until I hear the first sounds of my oldest son stretching his body across his bunk bed and sighing loudly as though announcing the morning. I pause with my fingers over hte keyboard, waiting to hear his long, lanky body plummet down the slide attached to his bed before he peaks out of his bedroom door with a smile that will fill my dark morning.
Liam will be next.  He's always next. Tiny tiptoe footprints tell us he's coming, but his silent silhouette waits for acknowledgement before he's enter the room with his tiny comfort blanket held up to his nose and mouth, as though he is shielding from the day.

We sit on the couch, me in the middle typing fervently on the computer hoping to get just one more paragraph done before all three are demanding things like attention and breakfast. The weight of two bodies against my arms create a challenge to my writing, but still I type on.  Their eyes just watch the letters press onto the screen as though they are reading the most beautiful story.

Someone asks if they can "help me".  Someone else asks if they have to go to school today.
No.
Yes.

Eventually I'll have to get up.  Eventually this peaceful part of the morning will come to screeching halt and everything will slide from calm to chaos in just a mere minute.  I will throw breakfast at them and beg them to eat it while I try to pull on something that looks like something people are allowed to go out in public in.  I will try to pretend I'm listening when they tell me a million times that they really like hotdogs and pirates and I will try to answer the trillion questions they shoot at me while I try to decide if it is worth it to brush my teeth for a school drop off. Little boys will get dressed and teeth will be brushed.  Hats and gloves will be pulled over uncombed heads and onto uncooperative fingers.
As we trample out the door two things will happen that will shape my day.  I'll see the accumulated snowfall from the night before taunting me from the grass and leaves and rooftops, "See what happens when you leave the sea."

And then Liam will turn to me and say, "Mommy, you still have your pajamas on!"

They aren't pajamas.  They're yoga pants.  Though they have never seen a minute of yoga.  Ever. 

I think my recent life is like yoga.  I stretch into positions that until this moment seemed impossible.  My legs burn and my mind races, but I hold tight to the positions, trying to balance everything I've accumulated to date. 
My life is like Power Yoga. Brian Kest tells me to push deeper and feel it.  So I push deeper and I feel it.  I don't like everything I feel, but I do it.  Sometimes I stumble over but I am strong so I always catch myself.  I have to remember to breath.  In. Out. In. Out.

Correction, my life is like hot yoga.  Because I am always sweating when I do it. 

And I'm red.  I'm always red-faced.

So I turn to Liam and say, "This aren't my pajamas, they're my regalia."