This last year, and the years before, they’ve been hard on me. Harder than I realized. They’ve etched cracks in my psyche, in my spirit, in my soul. Many cracks have healed, others remain open. Some mend temporarily, only to be thrust apart again and again.
So many cracks right now and they seem unable to heal, there’s no time or energy to invest. And depression, my old nemesis, sees its opportunity and slinks silently, filling the cracks with its unfeeling opacity. Eventually it will harden, leaving me rigid, unyielding against the currents of life.
This life, it requires movement, flexibility, energy, resilience. A spirit mired in this kind of muck, this rigid disillusion, is rendered inutile. If I cannot bend I will break. Pulled this taut, I might tear. Left this delicate I am sure to shatter.
Yoga compels my mind and body to sway and arch. Writing drives my thoughts to diverge and intersect. But what happens if I can’t bring myself to practice? What happens when the reluctance constrains me completely?
I have not been drawn to writing in a while. Or at least it feels like a while, to me. Topics come and go, some of them are even interesting, but I have no desire to sit down and write. It just isn’t there anymore. Maybe some day it will come back but right now there is nothing but a tired emptiness where the urge used to be.
Please bear with me. It might take a while and I can’t make any promises, but I know myself and I know my tendencies and there’s a good chance I’ll find my flexibility once again.
I hope you’ll all be here when I get back.