As almost always after a good bitch, I feel better today. Still moving slower, still not pushing hard, still losing track of time. Ray and I are moving into our new apartment on Friday if everything goes well, and I want to take it easy until then, I think.
It’s gray and rainy and wonderful outside now, although when I went out for my walk it was still only cloudy. I don’t like Florida summers, but this type of weather is divine.
Yoga this morning I was on my own but it felt pretty comfortable. My traps feel a little easier to live in, less puppeted. I overdid it a little yesterday on the Warriors and had to back off today. I did a not-very-deep pigeon pose today. I think I need to look into the psoas next–a pair of long muscles that run through the cup of the hips. It feels like the muscles on the outside of the hips are the problem, but when I do pigeon pose it’s something inside that goes “bluhhhhhhhh” and relaxes.
Out walking, I’m not ready to move yet but am totally ready to move. “I don’t want to leave.” “I want to see new things.” I stopped at a favorite pond and said, “Office hours are open, let’s see if anyone stops by.” The same character as yesterday appeared.
He sat with me at the pond, then got up and paced, afraid to relax because it was too beautiful and the world is just an illusion that happens in his head out of the corner of his eye, and the universe will disappear if he looks at it too close.
(I did tell you he was a smart guy full of thorns and elbows, right?)
I open the phone to type this down, and he says he’ll leave if I do, because people can’t capture the ephemeral. I do it anyway, because I’m used to failing at capturing the ephemeral but not completely failing, and he can’t stop me.
He watches me over my shoulder as I type, stealing glances at the pond, the ducks, the bugs tapping the surface of the water like twinkling stars, the dark shadows of the trees broken by lighter ripples.
I tell him that he can stay, dear friend, that I have the illusion under control for now, and he doesn’t need to disappear. He gets worked up about it but he does until I leave the park where the pond is. And then I’m alone again. I get the feeling that, to him, I’m just a figment of his imagination, that he feels like an idiot for feeling moved. Same, friend, same.
On the way back to the AirBnB, I think, “Being able to survive being poisoned doesn’t make you healthy.”
It might take some time for that to sink in.