the habit of being

I haven’t written. I was to start a journal of my vinyasa yoga practice, but after the first attempt, which was interrupted by a telephone call, I didn’t continue. I took notes as my teacher demonstrated the correct adjustments for various asanas; I underlined sentences that resonated with me, from my various texts. I taught my eleven minutes of sitting poses and hip openers, flushed, and was complimented, but I did not begin writing down my yoga practice. It mixes things up to much. Asana practice is a way to leave words behind, a method of living in the present moment. Writing is about destruction of the present moment, leaving it, forgetting it even. Glorification of some imaginary moment, some moment in the past or in the mind. Writing is thinking. Asana is non-thinking. I cannot think about not thinking. (No, silly, that is all you can do.)

A girl called me the most flexible person she had ever seen, and implied that this meant something about me, as a person and not simply an embodiment. I don’t understand. People work and sweat for strength; they try. I am still weak but I was born supple and long. It has never pained me to sit in the lotus posture. It does not mean the same thing to me as it does to the person who worked for years to open up their hips. My hips were always open. There is nothing to be proud of in my flexibility. I didn’t do it on purpose. It was a gift. It is all the worse for me to be vain about it. But what is it this girl sees in my body that she thinks is me?

Reading texts about yoga. Or “yoga philosophy” as yoga has come to mean “exercise class” these days. I feel good as am I am reading. I believe every word, and I want to follow this plan toward samadhi. The yamas, the niyamas. I resolve to dedicate myself. I will not eat animal products. I will not let my ego control me. I will be truthful and nonviolent and unattached. I will be meditative and humble. Steady, unjudgmental. And I put down the book and find myself me. The same selfish me as always. Crying because I have been ignored, because I am not treated the way I would like to be treated. Crying because I have these selfish emotions. Crying further because I realize the selfishness of them. Because I wish to control things. Because I am unenlightened. Because I do not know the self behind my ego. Because I truly cherish my personality, which is an illusion. And my mother made me soup, with meat in it. And my boyfriend tells me I should be careful, I should “find my own path” in this silly voice.

But maybe “finding my path” is worth worrying about, after all. Maybe it is the only thing to worry about. Maybe it doesn’t just happen. Maybe I just need some rules. Maybe I just need something beautiful and orderly. Maybe I will always do everything for all the wrong reasons, but maybe that is better than not doing anything at all.