Should my greeting be "and hello two-oh-one-two" ... not quite like me. 'Twas a fits and starts kind of day for me. Fortunately, I had not planned much, so I did not overly disappoint myself. I did have a sweet nap with Cooder this afternoon. Emmylou left us alone for awhile, so Cooder could sit on my chest and purr. I wish I could sleep that well more often.
I am still working on my big plan for the New Year. I have some "key concepts" I am contemplating. I am not going to try to read as many books as I did last year. Hopefully, I will be working and I won't have the same kind of time. I missed reading The New Yorker. And I intend to spend more time with my walking and maybe really get on the yoga train again.
When I did practice yoga, I found a headstand to be useful for many things. I am in no way, shape, or form, able to do one these days. I found the headstand to be particularly good for depression and changing my mood. I need this overall mindset to be more active. Brain rut. I think the headstand would be good for my stiff neck and tight shoulders, too.
Lately, I have thought that perhaps I am getting too "uptight" and "disapproving". It is easy enough to be a disgruntled and disapproving person once you become an invisible older female. (Maybe the same is true for males, too.) That headstand helps with a new perspective.
And, given that I have managed to write most days, clean my kitchen most days, take a walk most days, maybe I can find a place to start working on accomplishing a headstand again, and then that, too, will be a most days kind of thing.
The light was quite beautiful in the park today. The families were in abundance as were couples taking in a New Year. I was not much in a photographing mood, my eye being affected by my slightly internal demeanour. This walk I took without music or benefit of conversation, though I had several people to whom I owed return telephone calls. I suppose I am still reaching for a more positive place within me. I am not finding it easily. Perhaps I am looking too hard?
And all I actually have to offer as a writer, is my version of life. — Anne Lamott
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