Having wanted to be a writer for a lifetime (second, only, to wanting to become a doctor) I now find myself undergoing the crucifying humiliations of re-reading what I publish here (and elsewhere). In that sense, writing is very like meditation, an endless quest to get to the bottom of what it is you’re trying to formulate, what you characterise, where you’re looking from. Only to find that this is the view from nowhere, and not only that, but you got distracted in recording it and let the camera move and now all you’ve done is left a blurred mess behind as evidence, not of your brilliance, but of your fallibility.
So, my post on yoga for mums and babies is less literate than I’d like, and I’ll go back over it sometime. And sometime, too, I’ll organise this so there’s a page of links to practices that might allow you to feel yourself into what’s going on for you right now. Yoga is meditation, really: it’s just that you move to feel what moves and what is still so it’s a kind of dance with stillness, getting the restlessness to manifest itself, shaping it through a series that yearns to be perfectly beautiful but more often ends up being resistance built into a block that then requires a massive effort of disengagement to free itself back into a reflection of the flow. Oh, dear. Humility. I will post, and regret, post, and regret. Yet this will be a practice in itself, showing that the ego need demand nothing more of itself than that it recognises how it winds things into complicated knots when really, things are just as they are.