I'm taking a "hot yoga" week to really detox.
I used to be really, really into hot yoga. The way my practice looks now is what I would have scoffed at a few years ago: simply because my mind was so wild back then that I needed to calm down before I could learn to calm down!
I doubled up on hot classes, and even though they were a billion times easier than the classes I used to take in the city, the heat floored me. I poured myself out. And something surprising came out: I miss New York. I didn't know, I didn't realize (since it's all cold and harsh and grey, in contrast to my Venetian paradise). I was walking through my experiences in savasanah, clinging on to the them- wanting and not wanting to let them go. And then, I thought, let me experience NY in the present moment: I glided through the happiest streets of memory, inserting my present self, way of being, way of living into New York. And then I realized if I was to go back, the majority of places I would inhabit had not previously existed.
I was sobbing (as par yoga class usual). As I biked home, I wrote this:
-------
Dear New York,
You were my first love. The great unknown, hiding in little rooms. My first pilgrimage, and my first raucous freedom.
You were the thrill of success, and the bitter depression of failure. You were my first turn on: I didn't know what was happening.
You were the glitter of exhileration, and the overwhelming love of acceptance. I got so drunk and high I floated above my body in music. I don't remember the name of the band.
As I walked down your streets my mind was on fire.
You were insomnia and rapid heart-beat.
You taught me humility, and the neverending nausea of regret.
You were my loss of self control and the understanding of free will. You shattered my mirrors, broke my suitcase and ripped up my writing. And I loved you. I watched you turn into words and fall apart, and I survived.
You taught me to find myself. I stared into the center of infinity and didn't panic. You taught me the present moment and awed me with detail. You let me live the joy of the fairytale and then showed me a new dimension of grounded life.
You were shaking realizations of history and complexity, you were everything coming together.
You shoved people and experiences in my face when I wasn't ready. I forgive you for that.
You were the first orgasm I experienced with another being. I didn't know what a g-spot was either.
You sheltered me when I was homeless. You were also my first home. I miss red brick walls, the broken glass in the cement by the window, watching people below on 2nd st. I miss so many people in such small space. There was this maroon couch we piled up on.
It was cosmopolitan, and domestic.
You were the theatre of the absurd, and my first taste of madness. You were confidence and its betrayal, braggadocio and boldness. When I arrived I just wanted to talk; I learned how to see and listen.
I loved you with absolute purity and innocence. I wonder if I'll experience intensity like that ever again. I've lived like a tourist since I left you.
I used to be really, really into hot yoga. The way my practice looks now is what I would have scoffed at a few years ago: simply because my mind was so wild back then that I needed to calm down before I could learn to calm down!
I doubled up on hot classes, and even though they were a billion times easier than the classes I used to take in the city, the heat floored me. I poured myself out. And something surprising came out: I miss New York. I didn't know, I didn't realize (since it's all cold and harsh and grey, in contrast to my Venetian paradise). I was walking through my experiences in savasanah, clinging on to the them- wanting and not wanting to let them go. And then, I thought, let me experience NY in the present moment: I glided through the happiest streets of memory, inserting my present self, way of being, way of living into New York. And then I realized if I was to go back, the majority of places I would inhabit had not previously existed.
I was sobbing (as par yoga class usual). As I biked home, I wrote this:
-------
Dear New York,
You were my first love. The great unknown, hiding in little rooms. My first pilgrimage, and my first raucous freedom.
You were the thrill of success, and the bitter depression of failure. You were my first turn on: I didn't know what was happening.
You were the glitter of exhileration, and the overwhelming love of acceptance. I got so drunk and high I floated above my body in music. I don't remember the name of the band.
As I walked down your streets my mind was on fire.
You were insomnia and rapid heart-beat.
You taught me humility, and the neverending nausea of regret.
You were my loss of self control and the understanding of free will. You shattered my mirrors, broke my suitcase and ripped up my writing. And I loved you. I watched you turn into words and fall apart, and I survived.
You taught me to find myself. I stared into the center of infinity and didn't panic. You taught me the present moment and awed me with detail. You let me live the joy of the fairytale and then showed me a new dimension of grounded life.
You were shaking realizations of history and complexity, you were everything coming together.
You shoved people and experiences in my face when I wasn't ready. I forgive you for that.
You were the first orgasm I experienced with another being. I didn't know what a g-spot was either.
You sheltered me when I was homeless. You were also my first home. I miss red brick walls, the broken glass in the cement by the window, watching people below on 2nd st. I miss so many people in such small space. There was this maroon couch we piled up on.
It was cosmopolitan, and domestic.
You were the theatre of the absurd, and my first taste of madness. You were confidence and its betrayal, braggadocio and boldness. When I arrived I just wanted to talk; I learned how to see and listen.
I loved you with absolute purity and innocence. I wonder if I'll experience intensity like that ever again. I've lived like a tourist since I left you.
