Slightly less bitter is the knowledge that I am not, in fact, a psychic. I suppose I can live with this, despite that it places my chances of lottery winnings and their accompanying life of leisure back at the end of the line of likelihood, somewhere behind that lightening bolt just waiting to strike. Good thing I like my day job.
What I don't like is wondering why the hell my breasts have been so sore and achy that it's painful to hold my son, why I've been nauseous every time I go a few hours without eating, starving soon after finishing a meal, and so tired after a full night's sleep that my desk at work was beckoning like a pillow cased in 1500 thread count Egyptian cotton yesterday afternoon. It is not at all typical for me to have any of these as premenstrual symptoms; I just get cramps. Cramps I awoke with this morning, and knew before I even got out of bed and really knew, that my body was not in the state I was hoping it was.
I agreed to teach a Saturday morning restorative yoga class for National Yoga Day today. I was not in the mood to do it once the day actually arrived, but I had committed, and so I followed through. And as I lay on the mat, inhaling and exhaling deeply into my lower belly, into my empty womb, I tried to take my own instruction, tried to do what I was telling my students to do: inhale peace, energy, joy, relaxation; exhale stress, tension, worry, negativity.
Inhale hope; exhale despair.
Inhale the present; exhale the past and the future.
Inhale acceptance; exhale resistance.
Inhale what it is; exhale what I want it to be.
Inhale surrender; exhale control.
Inhale Que Sera Sera; exhale My Way or the Highway.
I've been thinking a lot lately about the phrase: Let Go and Let God. What does this phrase mean when God is unclear? How do you Let Go and Let.....an amorphous blend of schoolgirl Catholicism; New Age nonsense that sometimes, somehow resonates; pieces of Pagan nature worship that hit me like falling leaves, or snowflakes; a deep faith in my own fully fallible Intuition; and the way Art reaches into my chest and clutches my heart with its sharp, ragged claws on random, unsought occasions?
Everything is sacred; everything is profane.
And somewhere: dancing in heaven or waiting for my intentions to align with the stars, or my deepest desires to be sung in the perfect pitch or painted on some clean canvas where egg and sperm explode into spirit: there: is my baby, waiting patiently, while I inhale and exhale, which is all there really is to do, right now, today, anyway.