I totally get that self care sounds cliché and so white-girl-Becky of me. But I hope to address it in this piece in a manner that doesn't leave you with that impression or make you wonder how I have made it thus far in Adulthood to begin with, even though it might. This type of self care is more about manifestation that comes with trying to get shit out of your life that you don't need--and make time for what needs your attention.
Well, all that sounds very yoga-ish of you, you may very well be thinking (Except the cursing, and I agree--but since my grandparents already know that I certainly know my fair share of swear words and they still love me, I will curse if it's fitting).
Now back to Self Care:
This all started when I ordered some really fancy skin care about three weeks ago. I had been wanting this skin care system for quite some time, and finally, something snapped inside of me and I took the plunge. 5=7 business days later, I had this kit--face scrub, toner, AM cream and PM cream.
Well, this sounds pretty normal, you're thinking, a mid-thirties something or other cat lady buying skin care is legit.
It totally is--I just haven't used toner since 11th grade and 90% of the time I forget to take my makeup off and neglect flossing my teeth.
All that has now changed.
I asked my friend (who sold me this skincare) if I can sort of just half ass this skincare like everything else, and she replied,
"Sure. But it won't work as well."
Maybe she didn't mean to be so profound, but I thought about her answer and how it is quite applicable to a lot of our life pursuits. We can half-ass anything--but it won't work as well.
You guys get why this is turning into self care, right? I mean, we're talking washing your face and flossing. But those things made me wonder what would happen if I put some time into other areas of my life, like paying bills, writing, and meditation. What if I put some time and effort into the spaces of my life that I want to improve and enrich? Where would I find time for that and what am I ready to let go?
These are big questions, and we'll roll out Part 2, Let That Ish Go next week.
Until next time,
Floss everyday. Sometimes twice a day.
Do you ever just feel like you're wasting something?
I've been feeling restless lately, like I am missing out on exploring everything that life has to offer. Every week, I teach a class for these residential yogis that live in a fancy building in Manhattan, and I always give them what I call in my head "the Saturday Sermon." I usually tell them something with regards to finding joy in their practice, because you certainly won’t find it on the 6 train, but lately it's been all about that spring detox and decluttering.
Which I think is funny because the theme of detox comes up in yoga ALL. THE. TIME. I mean, yoga--in and of itself--is quite frankly meant to de-clutter. To quiet the mind and remove the chatter. I don't think this goal of achieving enlightenment or pure union ever goes away or becomes separate from the act of decluttering or detoxing*.
*(By the way, I mean "detox" in a good way--not a "I'm going to starve myself and only drink coconut water or whatever people do when they detox type way").
So in this spirit of decluttering full force and also in the spirit of Mercury being in Retrograde (even though I try not to let that get to me anymore), as well as being slightly motivated by a few deaths recently, I have been feeling, well, unhappy. Unfulfilled. Maybe even empty if that’s possible while you’re decluttering. .
I know, I know--I should go see a therapist like any good New Yorker to help cope with this feeling of inadequacy. And then afterward, I should hit up a juicy vinyasa class and meditate and feel good about myself again.
But the truth is that I have been:
A. Too lazy to find a new therapist. My last therapist was so terrific, and I really don't want to replace her even though she exclusively works with trauma victims only and ONLY for a set amount of government sponsored sessions. I used all my sessions.
B. The busier I become with other work, the more I think about doing what I am doing right now, which is writing. Then I become depressed because I am literally writing nothing (expect now, of course) but emails and my Saturday Sermon for my yogis.
So since I was feeling downright mopey, I pulled something off the bookshelf to take with me on this weekend's upstate excursion that had nothing to do with anything that I do-- no exercise or yoga--but a light-hearted book on wine by Marissa A. Ross, Wine. All the Time.
Wow. What a fucking joy it is to read this! I already know a lot about wine, simply having had to suffer through the bougeey restaurant business for so long, but it's clear that Marissa (if we can be on a first name basis), not only loves wine, but loves to write as well.
I realized, pouring over Marisa's hilarious words on tasting and wine descriptions, that I missed writing.
No, it's not just that. I missed making the time to write. The way I make time for hill repeats or downward dog.
It dawned on me that I, too, could be having this much fun if I did something crazy and just put a little effort into my own writing, which is something I love.
Talk about a detoxifying revelation--I returned home to the city ready to toss my fitness life aside and live my best "writer-style life" in the Hudson River Valley, imagining myself holed up in an old, worn down Victorian style house typing my novel and living this smelly city behind me except for maybe on the weekends when I'd come into Manhattan and traipse around carefree like a tourist at Shake Shack.
I don't have to do that, though. I can give my writing the tools it needs to grow and practice and continue to teach Surya Namaskars and give sermons on detoxing in tandem with each other.
I figured a good way for me to start untangling those feelings of angst would be right here, possibly in addition to or instead of exceedlingly long Instagram posts. And like these two bridges—one old, the other new—I can still use one while the other is being fine-tuned and completed.
So if you read this and a week has gone by without another post, Yogi, bring me home. Bring me back. Because my writing might be flawed, and it takes on its own decluttering process, but it’s something I can’t neglect anymore.