Monday, March 15, 2010

My Arms Are Sore.

I'd like to start by saying, I don't live Omily so much as I try my freaking best, and part of the attempt is, I think, helping others do the same.

I teach yoga in the New York City area, and do a lot of other things, too. There is so much to try, to learn about, it's overwhelming. Especially when I consider the fact that most of these things cost money instead of earning me money, which means that if I want to continue to do all these wonderful things, I have to also dedicate a significant portion of those 24 hours a day, seven days a week to something that brings in a paycheck. Damn. Is that what they call the real world?

Well, I'm doing my freaking best.

Graduating teacher training was rough. There was a little bit of post-partum depression, so to speak. I was suddenly flung out of the nest with little support, and only a vague idea of how to begin. I was well-trained though. I know what I can do. I'm a great yoga instructor, and I have something significant to offer. I'm avoiding discouragement by believing in that, instead of the cold fact that people do less hiring during a recession, and the field I've gone into is often considered a luxury.

Did I mention I love yoga, and don't feel it's a luxury? Love it. What it has done and continues to do for me would take a much longer post than anyone wants to read starting out. Sore as I am from circus class (the latest thing I'm obsessed with spending my time on) I'll be sure to do a gentle stretching practice tonight. Yoga's like my marriage. Even though I know just how good for me it is, it's something I have to reaffirm, re-choose, every single day. My favorite part about the yoga is, when I make up some lame excuse and skip it, refraining from feeling guilty about it is doing the most significant portion of my yoga after all.

omily yours,

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