This is me trying...

a midsummer ramble

Hello my friends,

It’s been so long. The perfectionist in me hates that. I could tell you that “I’ve been busy!” But, that’s just a half-truth. Really, it’s a combination of so many things, one of them being a little bit of internal questioning about my identity here on Substack and the “usefulness” of my writing while feeling absolutely, stunningly bombarded on the daily with information from far too many sources. I know you feel the bombardment, too.

Sometimes it just feels like too much to ask of people to read what I’ve written if it doesn’t have some GRAND PURPOSE in all of our lives! And then, well, you know, that stifles the creativity pretty quick.

There’s always been the attraction-repulsion aspect of writing, too — I write to figure out my mind or to share insight or to connect. Simply put, I write to be seen in some way, but also oh dear god do I not want to be seen. Being seen feels so…exposed. So the more my writing is out there, the more I want to hide.

There are two things that are inspiring me to push beyond the hiding to publish this very post: First, I know that when I read other writers like Susan Cain and Annie Ridout and Dara Kennedy, that I feel so happy to find like-minded, thinky spirits. I know that not everyone who listens to Yogaland wants to hear this part of my voice — the part that is not directly related to yoga knowledge/experience, the part that’s just a human trying to make sense of the world. But I know that, as I’m getting older, all I really care about are the true, authentic connections in my life.

Second: I’ve working through my hesitation about sharing in a writer’s group that a friend started this year. She achieved the impressive feat of bringing together 8 women who don’t know each other and who have no other common thread other than desiring to create through writing.

It has inspired me in ways I could not have imagined. After our last meeting (and going hiatus for the summer), I wrote my first poem of my entire life. I did not think poetry would ever be possible for me, although I admire it very much. And now I cannot stop.

When I say “poetry,” I mean it very loosely? Can you tell I am slightly cringing with insecurity here? Most importantly, it has been a creative outlet I’ve sorely needed.

I’d meant for this post to be a “mid-year check-in” of sorts. For me? This year has been hard. So much suffering in the world. The collective witnessing a deluge of violence and horrors every day. A feeling of aging that I’m not completely comfortable with. Still a lot of caregiving in my life, all around with a lot of unpredictability and uncertainty.

It’s taken me the whole first half of the year to get a handle on myself. I have felt, at times, like I’m white-knuckling things. But recently, I’ve felt myself settling in and what’s emerged for me is these guide posts: Joy, growth, and creativity.

The stuff of life — the doing the dishes and the caregiving and problem-solving and gym-going and breathing and meditating and producing and working and mentoring and all of it will intervene.

But I can come back to those touchstones and repeat them like a mantra lately —joy, growth, creativity — and it sets my mind right.

I find myself taking a deep breath and I do whatever I’m doing with more presence and pleasure and ease.

So, here’s to a moment of getting over my own cringe and sharing some poems that give a snapshot of life right now. Also, I’m sharing what Ocean Vuong recently had to say about cringe.

A busy cafe

Few things make me happier than a busy cafe. People gathered, unhurried. Big dogs, little dogs. A hot cup of coffee and an almond croissant. Hipster bros chatting and young moms stealing a moment away, journaling furiously. Cozy and buzzy at the same time. Plants dangling from the ceiling exhaling their oxygen onto the collective. A baby peers over at me from his stroller. Creativity feels ripe.

Shades of Green

I want to always remember the myriad shades of Kauai. The near-black mossy brush and the gloriously bright dangly leaves hanging in a cinematic arch over the road we’re all driving down. There are shades upon shades upon shades on the mountains, too many to count or name — although I’d love to try.

I’d love to ask the mountains, “Try these on for size and LMK what you think?”

How about ferny or limelight or vibes? Or maybe not quite sage or radiance or minimalist?

There’s no way we could name all of the colors that fill our senses with so much god so much life so much everything. But I’d love to keep trying.

Therapy

“I’ve always been lonely,” I say in a near whisper to my therapist, the first neurodivergent therapist I’ve ever seen. I say it in a whisper because I haven’t ever said it out loud to someone and I feel guilty. Because my life is filled with love and meaning and purpose and I don’t know why it’s still there sometimes, the pea-sized hard pit in my stomach. I’m trying to work out why it’s still there and whether it’s trauma that I need to work through and why it bubbles to the surface during my hardest moments.

“Oh, yes. I see that.” she calmly nods her head with a small knowing smile. “I know you do. But…so what?”

Wow. That affirmation and acceptance was instant healing after so many years of wondering why.

So what?

nlyonne

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