It’s a bit embarrassing to admit, but I don’t meditate or practice yoga for the sake of being spiritual or virtuous. Let me explain.
This past Monday started off quite well. I woke up to a freshly brewed cup of coffee that I didn’t even have to make—thank you, Tom! We spent some time in his cozy living room tackling emails. In the midst of sharing a long-winded story, he gestured to his computer, signaling that it was time for me to get back to work. Surprisingly, this didn’t bother me; who doesn’t appreciate someone with clear boundaries?
I wrapped up a second draft of an essay that I thought was decent. The sun was shining, but rain was predicted later, which honestly relieved me. California is facing a drought, and while that might not concern everyone, it’s worth noting that this drought could impact food availability in the future—not exactly cheerful news, right? Still, knowing that the drought was somewhat being managed lifted a weight off my shoulders.
Contrary to popular belief, I don’t dread Mondays. In fact, I enjoy working, even if I sometimes think I’d prefer to be doing something else. But honestly, nothing makes me happier than working—well, as long as it’s in moderation. I find five hours of writing to be just right; it leaves time for reading, observing life, and hanging out with people who make me laugh. Funny enough, that’s why I got divorced—I realized I didn’t have time for someone whose humor I didn’t appreciate.
However, my pleasant Monday quickly took a turn for the worse when I left the house to grab some toast and ordered what can only be described as the worst cappuccino ever. As I pushed it aside, I realized I had never even experienced a mediocre cappuccino before. After years of great ones, this was a shocking letdown! It was gritty and stiff, like a bad memory I couldn’t shake. Sending it back felt out of the question—what would I say? “Excuse me, did you just wander in off the street and start making cappuccinos?”
It’s embarrassing when minor frustrations lead to silly reactions. I resorted to using a jam-covered spoon to shove a crumpled napkin into my cappuccino, effectively turning it into a crime scene. When the barista asked if I was done, I snapped, “Oh yes, I’m DONE,” flashing a smile that barely concealed my irritation, even though I knew I was being a bit of a brat.
Arriving at the office, I was greeted by my colleagues: a fellow writer, a graphic designer, and a black Labrador named Max. Some days, Max’s soulful brown eyes provide the only comfort I need to keep from spiraling. Other days, he seems to be engaged in a never-ending battle with his slobbery red toy, and I can’t help but wonder why he’s even there.
I sat down to draft a pitch for an editor who, while not necessarily smarter than I am, is certainly more organized in ways that intimidate me. The pitch wasn’t particularly complicated, but I struggled to find my flow. I thought if I just jotted down some facts, I could work with that. But the facts felt bland, and that wasn’t going to cut it.
As I wrestled with writer’s block, I kept thinking about my evening yoga class and how skipping it would be tempting if I didn’t make any progress. Of course, sometimes skipping yoga is the right choice, but if I went down that road, I had to be prepared for the consequences—like looking up at 7 PM, realizing I hadn’t accomplished anything, and missing out on a chance to rejuvenate myself.
After several hours of fruitless writing, I realized what I really wanted was a hamburger. So I went out and got one. Upon returning to the office, I shot a glare at Max and muttered, “That toy is disgusting.” Thankfully, his owner took him outside, restoring some semblance of normalcy.
I attempted to write again. What else could I do? You write poorly, take a break, and then resume writing poorly until something good happens. It’s hard to determine if this persistence is humble or arrogant; on one hand, it acknowledges that writing is a job, but on the other, it’s a promise to yourself that brilliance will arrive any minute.
As the afternoon dragged on, my mood soured. I was dreading the thought of spending another hour in the office before heading to yoga. I craved freedom—to walk around and complain to real people, vent on social media, or indulge in a drink that might smooth things over. Plus, I wasn’t in the mood to deal with others; I wanted a quiet bathtub and a glass of vodka. If I had to interact, I wished they could all be characters from my favorite TV show.
But that nagging feeling of wasting my time convinced me to go. I paid my $16, rolled out my mat in the corner, and settled in for an hour and a half of yoga. Honestly, I didn’t enjoy it any more than I had enjoyed much of my day.
The instructor began with his usual pep talk about how life isn’t so bad. I found myself thinking, “Ugh, enough already,” despite having once loved his classes when they were my only source of joy. I went through the motions, half-heartedly participating. When he encouraged us to put more energy into it, I felt a flicker of irritation.
The meditation segment lasted longer than usual, and I spent most of it calculating my finances and worrying I’d left my iPad on top of my car. The irritation continued to bubble as I thought about Apple releasing a new iPad just days after I received mine. After class, my friend Rachel gushed about how amazing it was, and I shrugged, replying, “Not really.”
Once home, I made myself fried eggs and toast, and finally drew a bath. This time, without the vodka, I slipped in and let the warmth wash over me. It was then that the tears came—I cried for a while, overwhelmed by the weight of feeling perpetually dissatisfied, always expecting my life to be interesting and successful. Gradually, I started to chuckle at how absurd my attitude was; if my ungratefulness and irritability weren’t so entertaining, I might have figured out how to let them go.
By the end of the night, I found myself filled with a sense of euphoria. How lucky was I to have access to a warm bath? The next morning, I woke and went through a similar routine, but this time I made sure to order from the barista who crafted a fantastic cappuccino. It turns out if you don’t pay attention to the practical aspects of life, the spiritual ones don’t quite come together.
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Summary
This article explores the author’s candid experiences with meditation and yoga, highlighting the ups and downs of daily life, the struggles of creativity, and the importance of finding joy in small moments. Despite moments of frustration, the author ultimately recognizes the value of routine and self-care.