There are twenty four hours in a day. Surprising, I know. Each hour is worth roughly 4%. The time I spend sleeping or at work takes up the bulk of my day---roughly 70-72% or so, depending.
That leaves, let's just say, 30% of my day to do whatever I want. To sit on my ass and watch TV. To write my novel or yammer on this here blog. To snuggle with the Tree.
Or maybe fucking go to yoga.
4% of my day. Maybe 8%, if you add a half hour on either side of travel and prep and when I continue to sweat. That still leaves 22% to laze about. To eat. To poke at my face. To be a complete waste of space like I apparently prefer to be more than anything else.
I know, without a doubt, I am a happier person when I practice yoga regularly. I carry myself differently. I feel energized by the experience. I'm calmer. As my mother says, I have a different tone in my voice. Yet when I'm struggling and feeling bad about myself, I can't bring myself to step into that space. There's a vulnerability there that I don't want to confront. I had a whole weekend full of opportunity, and didn't take advantage of any of it. Let me be clear: I am not exceptionally good at yoga. And the longer I go, the more I fear starting back and feeling weak and exposed. Regressing, like I have with everything else.
What I keep need to reminding myself is the obvious: how far I have come in these last eleven months and how much happier I know can be if I devote 4% of my day to yoga. And weak, I am definitely not.
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