I tend to be fearful of classes that are simply labeled 'Flow', because that could mean a practice with all the up-down-vinyasa type action of a Catholic wedding ceremony, and those are not my vibe. While I started my yoga journey as a devotee of the Ashtanga Primary series 30+ years ago, I prefer something deeper and more intentional in my daily practice. Today's class...
Some days I look like hot garbage. Some days I look polished and proper. But every day I show up--and ultimately, that practice of presence is the most important facet in the life of a writer.
We live on opposite sides of the same city yet rarely manage to meet unless it's for a holiday at our parents' house 90 minutes away.
I showed up to class only to find out that the regular teacher rarely if ever uses props, but I figured if I went down, I was going down in flames of my own making. As it turned out...
Perhaps electricity qualifies more as a big, fat, huge, juicy joy than a tiny joy. Either way, I've never been more grateful to hear the gentle whir of the fan punctuate a hot, humid mid-June afternoon than I was Thursday.
I have struggled with allowing people to see my creative side forever, so about a year or more ago, I started doing these little time-lapse videos of my Morning Pages sessions on my Instagram.
He blended in so well with the trail I could have squished him. And he sat so perfectly still for his portraits that I wish I'd had some dead flies to reward him with.
I have been battling lots of overwhelming thoughts, which is unusual for me. Today's space was magical, liminal, and helped me see the reality of some of my mind's created illusions. Clarity is such a beautiful thing.
You might think that on a day involving a cemetery, there is no tiny joy to be found, but you'd be wrong. Those are the spaces where tiny joys abound, if only you seek them out above the pain and tears. I should know--I'm an expert at being around death, as I've been told.
We thought the real find was a newspaper from November 23, 1963--until we found a book of postcards written to her mother-in-law, my great grandfather's mother, circa 1909, and three photo postcards of my great grandma and her two siblings.
After spending the night in a cabin on my parents' property, I'd hoped to wake to a bright, yellow sunrise but was instead treated to a dense, heavy fog, a remainder of last night's long, steady rain.
Where did you find today's tiny joy? For me, it was simple, but certainly not tiny: the big-hearted and hard-wagging tail of my parents' black lab (my furry sister, as I call her), Sadie Mae. Here, she gave me a sad face because she wasn't allowed more treats after dinner. Please don't worry--she is not …
My triggers are personal, but the struggle to rein in my mind's chatter around the issue of self-worth, I believe, is universal. We all have moments that we doubt whether we're worthy of the things we desire. We're human. We're here to work through those things.
Where did you find your tiny joy? Was it obvious or did you need to do a bit of introspection? I'd love to hear...
Enter my daily gratitude practice, or, as I have come to affectionately term it, my String of Tiny Joys. Each of those sparkling, tiny moments became a lifeline of sorts, a way to lift me up and move me forward when I often had no idea where I was headed.