Contrary to my last post, I have to fess up that yoga actually has in fact interfered with my writing. Here’s the scoop.
My blog at http://www.bluemailbox.blogspot.com is a self-deprecating, mom-pleasing journal that bounces all over the place from topic to topic. I write about whatever comes up in my day-to-day life with reflections on everything from alcohol and public transportation to hummingbird food and neti pots. I started the blog in 2005 and have written over 200 posts. However, of those 200 posts, only 12 (that’s 6% for you Doc B smarty-pants types) have been written since Memorial Day 2011…the day I took my first Mysore Ashtanga yoga class.
Since that fateful day in May a year and a half ago, I’ve had a 6:00 AM, hour and a half long, 4 to 6 day-a-week yoga practice. To get my chunky butt up and out of the house by 5:50, the alarm is set for a series of snooze button smacks starting at 4:50. And getting up at that ungoddessly hour means I’ve got to be in bed by 9:00 PM to get even a smidgeon of the beauty sleep I so desperately need. By the time I ride the filthy but convenient MARTA train home from work, feed the cats, act as Doc B’s sous-chef, eat dinner, unload and load the dishwasher, scoop the litter box, take out the trash, and fill the washing machine with dirty yoga clothes, when in the world would I have time to write?
Weekends ultimately became the time to jot down blog ideas and occasionally flesh them out. But it didn’t take long to realize that the only thing giving me any real material was yoga. Unfortunately, I felt funny writing too much about my yoga experiences mainly because I didn’t want my
mom vast readership to become alienated or think I’d joined a cult. I didn’t want anyone concerned that I’d be knocking on doors Saturday mornings to drop off a Watchtower recruitment pamphlet. And I couldn’t imagine they would be interested in what transpired each day between sun salutations and savasana. I figured readers would be snoring with boredom in their own form of corpse pose. So yes, my writing suffered.
After some expensive soul searching, including mimosas, I’ve come to realize that yoga is what I want to write about. More specifically, what it’s like to be a half-assed yogi, living with Doc B, a whatever the antonym to half-assed yogi is. So to that (rear)end, Doc B will continue as the incredulous, deadpan, silent meditation retreating, way-further enlightened “character” in my writing while I’ll maintain the role of wine-drinking, lazy, yoga pose cheating, fully unenlightened being. Cheers!