I did my first downward dog of the new year in yoga class today.
Apparently, while the rest of my body was doing the sensible thing and becoming more and more relaxed every day of Christmas break, my hamstrings were doing the opposite, experimenting with just how tight they could possibly get when left on their own. Downward cripple dog.
I really hate beginnings. Too much pressure. I even hate the beginning of the conversation. Excruciating. It takes David a good twenty minutes to get me to warm up to him at the end of the day. How are you? How was your day? Who can assess and sort and evaluate an entire day and then come up with a quick, adequate, accurate answer to these questions? They are landmines, full of innuendo and accusation, and I get tripped up every time. Once we get through the first painful sentences, it's so much easier. Downward emotionally-cripple human.
Worse than beginnings, I really, really hate beginning again. Too much pressure combined with too much regret. A lethal combination. A paralyzing combination. Failure behind and foreshadowy threats of inevitable failure ahead. Downward spiral.
And yet, here we are in a brand new year and I find that I just can't help myself. As usual, the first and foremost, the constant and eternal, the old and tired, the relentless and unquenchable desire that always surfaces is the word. To write.
Yes, to write. To record. To create. To be heard. To make sense of. To be understood. To make art. To tell the truth. To find the truth. To remember. To love better. And say it more. To write.
Last night as we turned out the lights and spoke the last lines of the day that were all about what I didn't get done and how the year might have changed but I hadn't, I remembered the snow that started Christmas Eve and didn't stop for two days. The flakes were tiny. Dry, meager, Utah flakes. Small and harmless and insignificant. So small, they almost looked like dust. But all told, there were thirty-four inches covering the aspens and the pines and our cozy cabin by the time the storm wore itself out. Tiny flake by tiny flake. Impossible. And yet, true.
That is what I hope for. One sentence, one tiny word at a time, letter by letter, until I have to shovel my way out.