zirconium

Crow

is what I'd like to be doing
about that pose I finally held
for maybe five seconds ten days ago
after seven years of forward rolls and faceplants.
There aren't pics. The wobbling on water
was keeping the rest of the class immersed
in their own business, which indeed
is something I deeply liked about yoga

back when sweating with strangers was merely
weird and gross and healing, rather
than playing roulette with aspirated bullets.
Though even then the mind was always boxing
the shadows of egos and scripts. Even now
I snarl at the teacher who parroted "Push
beyond your limits" every afternoon. She
is a reason I don't go back to that room

for while I don't always own my own mind
my blood and bones and brain all bear
the knowing that there's just this one life
and just this one body. Sometimes it keeps
me tangling and tango-ing with shouldas
all damn night, sometimes into dreams
that are no kind of restful, but often enough
it's saved me from fools and from my own folly:
to ken the stakes is to mind looking feeble
or out of place -- and then to stand firm
on where I am, on where I feel safe

whether it's never putting head to knee
or going back to double-masks inside the store
but also flipping the dog and failing at Warrior 2
again and again and other things too
again but at times with more grace and then
one morning the balance is there,
the world askew and never not too much
and when I tried again last night
who would have believed it had happened at all
watching me almost roll into the furniture

and this is when I thank the stars
for this body that knows what is true
no matter who might be minding it
and for what this body will return to.



(Different pose, different session. Photo by Sara Bradley at Nashville Paddle)

I was put in the right front of the dragon boat during practice tonight, and the coach emphasized that those of us in the first two rows needed to stay zen no matter what was being shouted at us, and that what might feel slow to us in the front would be impossible to keep up with in the back if we went too fast, because of how water works.

Oh, the metaphors to be expanded from that.

Last night, in a dream, I saw myself effortlessly doing splits in front of two co-workers. I've never successfully executed a split in my life. One doesn't need a psychology degree to unpack that one.

Work is providing solid entertainment on top of the crushing load. (I was at the office past 9 p.m. yesterday to meet today's deadlines.) During today's lunch break, a colleague plaintively asked what "Mercury in retrograde" meant, and twenty minutes later everyone at the table was discussing Chinese zodiac breakdowns (precipitated by me mentioning the anticolonial heft to a presentation about Eastern vs. Western zodiacs at a Philadelphia Museum of Art party last year, and then noting that I'm a metal dog).

More important, I am filled with glee at how our tug-of-war team for this Wednesday's tournament is coming together.

Last night, I could not settle down or focus after getting home, so I dove into Jackie Lau's Ultimate Pi Day Party and Ice Cream Lover. Props to whomever on Twitter recommended them to me, and props to my library for stocking them. Asian heroes! Bisexual and biracial heroine! Six-year-old foodies! Snark from sisters! Grandmas digging durian! (Can't stand the stuff myself, but the commentary is fab.)

Surprise gift from a friend. Notes from other friends. Scandalizing the BYM because I went grocery-shopping in a bikini. (I could not be arsed to put my work dress back on after practice, so to speak.) Doing laundry after midnight because of the leggings I want to wear tomorrow (keeping my right hip glued to the side of the boat = chafing). Getting one inbox below 500 unread. Plotting pies . . .

There is a mental metric ton of paperwork I must plow through tonight, and I don't wanna, plus the US Open women's singles final was this afternoon, which means the garbage bins are significantly cleaner (and I even went at some of the grodier corners with q-tips), some ancient dog shmutz has been scrubbed off a kitchen window, some recent hackberry shmutz has been wiped off the car windows and handles, leftover tiles from our 2009 bathroom renovation delivered to Turnip Green, and assorted leftovers incorporated into tastier hodgepodges (the last of the white wine from the freak bottle that sent glass into my cleavage has been blended with bargain-bin oranges and fruit salad dregs; the asparagus I defrosted and then forgot about has been scrambled into some eggs), and while I shall desist from dealing with the nearly-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-compost-bowl potatoes until tomorrow (possibly putting them into a lazy woman's version of potato nik), there is bread dough rising on the other end of the kitchen counter.

This morning I volunteered for the dragon boat festival, a fundraiser for the Cumberland River Compact. I ended up helping one of the Buddhist temples set up their tent, distributing oars, helping rowers in and out of boats and (un)tying said boats from the docks, and ferrying lifejackets to and fro. It was a good fit for what my brain and body needed after this week (which included one editing push that went past 4 a.m. and another work-thru-lunch-and-dinner haul yesterday), especially since I'm still coughing too much to dance or go to shows. After my shift, I played cornhole with one of the "Best Little Oarhouse in Tennessee" paddlers and a mother-daughter pair, and watched some of the dance-offs. One emcee was beside himself when a temple team busted into a rehearsed version of The Wobble. Next year I'll try to plan the day so that I have time to fly a kite.

It was likewise tempting to continue avoiding the paperwork put in much more time on the yard, but I confined myself to adding water where needed and clearing enough of a bed to plant the "whirlwind" anemone into its new spot (as well as putting the rosemary and thyme into proper pots):



When I checked on planting distance and depth, I had to look up the word "friable." Which was enough to get a new poem going as well.

My big sister will be matching my St. Stephen's Day donation. That means your purchase of a $5 book (or posting/tweeting about this poem) will send $4 to the Flint Water Fund. More details in the previous entry, and heartfelt thanks to everyone who's participated so far!