Beautiful Chaos

On one hand, sleep, beautiful, deep sleep, is all I can think about.

It is just a thought as this roller coaster jolts me awake just as I
fall into a dream.

Or wakes me into this dream, because I must be dreaming. Surely, at
my humble age, I am not seriously thinking of doing this mini-
performance with my salsa class.

I prefer to think of it as a demo.

But I must be as I practice it during my lunch break, secretly, in my
room hoping no teachers or students walk in to find out about my
silly delusions.

With perfect timing (which I don't always have dancing), I torqued my
knee slightly and, after almost 4 hours of dancing, my ankle is now
throbbing. Like a good dancer, I did not complain or wince during
rehearsal, did not blame my mistakes on the discomfort.

Tomorrow, I do it again: work, Spanish class, dancing.

I need to do laundry because the one dirty black shirt will be the
one I want to wear as I know that night the 10 other black tops just
will not do.

My Writer Strikes

As the writer's of LA picket the studios, so my muse pickets my
brain, as if the halting of writing has seeped like a virus into the
already weak circulatory system of my writing body. Sadly, that may
be the best analogy I have come up with months.

Ever since the disappointing and exhausting trip to the southern
hemisphere, I cannot seem to relocate myself completely. Slowly, I
am getting back to the yoga, to stopping and at least being aware of
the moment. Teaching is improving and I am even enjoying my students
(the shrinkage of my classes from 30 plus to 25 or less helps greatly).

Yet, for the first time, I truly have writer's block. Not simply
dissatisfaction with my writing, or the usual lack of discipline.
But I literally cannot think of things to write about.

Sure, there is the battle within about locating my spiritual home,
feeling like a woman caught between two lovers, both for whom she has
great compassion and appreciation, both whom have supported her in
various ways through troublesome patches, yet, neither, alone, are
able to give her what she desires. Currently, that has bee avoided
by staying at home on Sunday mornings.

I figured I would do things for me, like write and yoga. I don't. I
stare at the computer screen and the fall into my procrastination
techniques of cleaning, redecorating. I have bought a new desk;'
then I rearranged my apartment so I now I have my 'yoga/salsa studio
space,' complete with mirrors and void of any furniture to be moved
when I want to dance or do yoga.

On occasion I have been plagued with questions such as, is the driver
of that car acting with such entitlement because of the vulgarly
large size of the car, or does she/he own such a vulgarity because of
the sense of entitlement he/she already had?

But today, a bit heartbroken, a bit love struck, a bit exhausted, I
wrote something other than a cover letter or resume or assignment for
my students. So, I decided to start my one-hour a day writing
regime today. Here is the result of my one hour (or most of it).
Sorry you must suffer the consequences of this emergence from the
strike against my creativity, but I share because I am giving,
loving, unselfish woman, contrary to my cynical and fortified mask.