Spout.

In starting this post, I did exactly what I told myself this post would not be like: I started to imagine the perfect way to start the post, the story to tell, the lesson to be learned, something comical-slash-wise-slash-intuitive.

But sometimes that's just bullshit.  I am sometimes total bullshit.  And most of the time, I take what could be little nuggets of opportunity to explore in an idea or insight, and I just poop all over them with my anal retentive need to perfectly craft words, because this is part of who I am: I am a writer.  My mother is a writer.  We write words good.

But as much as I want to spout wise and insight and blah blah blah, really, I just want to write. 

Can.
Car.
Bed.
Desk.
Christmas tree.

Words for the sake of words sometimes, movement for the sake of movement, which leads me to another problem: I can't practice at home sometimes (most times) because it's not the perfect fucking practice.

If I met me, heard my inner voice and the reasons why I don't do stuff, I would be so annoyed with myself.  I am so far from perfect and so very okay with it 89% of the time, so what's my deal with not being able to write, not being able to yoga?

Here, now, this is where I remind myself that THIS is exactly what this blog is about.  No name for a yoga, no way to confine or limit it; this yoga (all of ours) is about the flowering of our Selves, our hearts, our most natural way of being and seeing and relating, so that we can, in fact, become witness to our ultimate Connection, and our illusion of disconnect.

So fuck it.  I am doing yoga right now.  Right now, I'm honest.