I often feel a bit sheepish admitting that my daily yoga and meditation routine isn’t driven by a desire for spirituality or moral superiority. Let me share my story.
Last Monday kicked off nicely. I woke up to a steaming cup of coffee—no effort on my part. My partner and I settled into his cozy living room, tackling emails together. In the midst of a lengthy anecdote I was sharing, he gently gestured at his screen, a clear signal that it was time for me to pause. Surprisingly, this made me feel good. Who doesn’t appreciate a partner with boundaries?
After finishing an essay that I thought turned out quite well, I noticed it was sunny, with rain predicted later. I was relieved, given California’s ongoing drought, which might not concern those living elsewhere, but could eventually affect food availability everywhere. For that moment, I felt a weight lift off my shoulders knowing things were under control.
Mondays aren’t a bane for me. I enjoy my work; in fact, I often find I’m happiest when I’m engaged in writing—though in moderation, of course. Five hours of writing feels just right for me, allowing time for reading, daydreaming, and laughing with friends—who provide plenty of material for stealing jokes. That’s actually why my marriage ended; I realized I needed space away from someone whose humor didn’t resonate with me.
However, my relatively pleasant Monday took a turn for the worse when I ventured out for toast and ended up with what might be the worst cappuccino I’ve ever tasted. It was gritty and unpleasant, a far cry from the delightful brews I’m used to. I was too irritated to send it back, so instead, I committed a little crime against that drink, using a jam-covered spoon to create what could only be described as a cappuccino crime scene. When the barista asked if I was finished, I smugly replied, “Oh yes, I’m DONE,” plastering a fake smile on my face.
Following that debacle, I arrived at my shared office, which includes a fellow writer, a man, and a friendly black Labrador. On some days, the dog’s soulful gaze keeps me grounded, while on others, I find myself questioning his presence when he’s busy making a mess with a toy.
I attempted to draft a pitch for an editor who, while not necessarily more talented than me, had a level of seriousness that intimidated me. The pitch was simple, but my brain felt foggy. I kept telling myself that writing down facts would help, yet they came out lifeless. I often thought about just sending what I had and accepting rejection as proof of my effort.
All the while, I contemplated skipping yoga that evening if I didn’t meet my writing goals, hoping to avoid the disappointment of another unproductive day. But if I chose to skip, I knew I had to brace myself for the consequences—like looking up at the clock, realizing it was seven, and regretting missing a chance to rejuvenate.
Three frustrating hours later, I realized I simply wanted a hamburger. So, I indulged. Upon returning to the office, I shot the innocent dog a disapproving glance and stated, “That toy is disgusting.” Luckily, his owner intervened and took the dog out.
I tried to write again, wrestling with whether it’s humble to keep pushing through poor writing or arrogant to expect a creative breakthrough. I waited for that moment of inspiration while struggling against post-lunch lethargy, and then, of course, snacking again because at least it felt productive.
By late afternoon, my mood was dismal. The thought of sitting through another hour of yoga felt unbearable. I longed for the freedom to vent my frustrations online or unwind with a drink—though I knew that would only lead to feeling worse later. Plus, there would be other people at yoga, and I wasn’t in the mood for social interaction unless they were characters from my favorite show.
But that nagging fear of wasting time coaxed me to go to class. I begrudgingly paid my fee, placed my mat in the corner, and settled in for the session. I didn’t derive any enjoyment from it, much like the rest of my day. The instructor delivered his usual encouraging spiel about the beauty of life, which only fueled my irritation, even though I genuinely appreciated his support during tougher times.
The meditation portion dragged on longer than usual, and I spent half the time calculating my finances and worrying about my iPad left behind. The other half was consumed with annoyance over Apple’s new product release just days after I received mine. When the class concluded, my friend Lisa enthusiastically asked if I enjoyed it, and I simply shrugged, not particularly impressed.
Arriving home, I opted for fried eggs and toast, then ran a bath—a much-needed retreat. Without the vodka I thought I required, I sank into the warm water and cried. I wept not just for my frustrations but also for my tendency to resist joy until I felt justified. Then, I chuckled at how absurd it was that I continuously battled my own happiness.
In that moment of clarity, I realized how fortunate I was to indulge in something as simple as a hot bath. The next day mirrored the previous one, but I at least figured out where to find good cappuccinos.
In conclusion, I’ve learned that if you don’t balance practical needs with spiritual well-being, it all just doesn’t quite add up. For those navigating similar journeys or interested in home insemination, check out this resource for helpful insights. And if you’re looking for an at-home insemination kit, this one is worth considering.