A Body at Rest

Just me on a tiger skin rug, nbd. By Rachel Levit

It's all happening, Sweet Friend. There are signs of a thaw after this fall/winter/early spring of malcontent -- we've got chirpy little wrens dangling fat and reeling worms from their bills as though fishing for their own babies... which is a better bird situation, in my book, then the frozen, knifelike crows with their RAVENOUS EYES (that want to eat my eyes, I'm telling you); all of Logan Square has adopted my daily uniform -- crop top, high-waisted shorts, wedge sneakers what uppppppp; and opportunities are finally, finally starting to open up for me like so many emboldened roses.

And I feel... dubious? Lightly terrified? Spazzy beyond your wildest dreams?

Last night I went to an art opening (for Kate McQuillen!) and en route, our bus hit a cab. When we eventually arrived (all bones in their appropriate bone sockets: no one was hurt) at the space way out in a west, West Loop industrial corridor, we couldn't find her studio. And when we eventually arrived at her studio, an editor who I'm interested in writing for asked me what I write... and I was hot and my upper lip was sweaty and I already knew I was going to be late TO MY THERAPY APPOINTMENT later that evening and I sh*t you not, I said "I don't know? All the things? Girly stuff?" and promptly spilled some of my white wine on myself.

And I was... late to therapy.

The thing is, I don't trust that these particular emboldened roses won't shrivel up and clamp their petals closed like an oyster or the corpse of Tallulah Bankhead's long-dead fingers crusted around a lowball bourbon glass. This year has presented me with so many almost opportunities that never came to fruition and I'm just trying to be and process and LIVE MY LIFE, you know? You do know. You read this blog. Good for you. So if you can stand another anecdotal something, I think I can make a connection to benefit us all.

I've been yoga-ing on the daily, of late. For titillation's sake, you should know that I recently fell on my head while attempting to Salamba Sirsasana, and the practice does not come naturally to me in the slightest. But I am passable at shavasana: corpse pose... deceased Tallulah Bankhead pose, the pose where you don't do anything because you're meant to rest in shavasana and absorb the benefits of 90 minutes' worth of focus and effort. And of course my mind meanders. Of course, my tailbone hovers above ground due to my having somewhat of an ass and I shift from cheek to cheek for 10 minutes, frowning all the while... it's only natural. But I do very consciously attempt to slow down my breath and absorb the aforementioned benefits, which could very much translate to life and limbo-land if I would only let it... if I would only acknowledge the focus and effort I've been putting in as I attempt to pursue my (treacherous) path (of undisclosed geographical location), and absorb the benefits of learning all that I've learned about myself in the process.

So to mix metaphors for just a moment, which I never, ever do -- I'm going to stop, sniff these roses, and be glad that my eyes aren't being pecked out by beak-shivs at this very moment. Namaste.

XOXO,
Rose