Time To Dust Off the Ol' Writing Hat

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.

and

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.