Sunday mornings, I go to Level Two yoga, though I can’t do half the poses, though I weigh as much as five of the other girls tied together, and though at many points in the class I know I’m about to die.
Sunday evenings, I go to Fear Experiment (Storytelling), though there is intense pressure to pen a New York Times best-seller, though my classmates laugh and cry during everyone else’s musings more than they laugh and cry during mine, and though I know I’ve lost whatever writing skill I once had.
Here’s the thing —
I never die.
The pressure is applied by no one but myself.
It’s not a competition.
No one cares other than caring that you show up and that you participate.
No one is making judgments. No one that is but me. About myself.
The knowledge I know is usually wrong.
While it may not always be pretty — I sweat. A lot. I am wrapped up in myself. A lot. — I’m out there, doing and trying. Living.
I would much rather flail, stumble, and trip than remain motionless. Because with those stumbles often come cartwheels. Because those stumbles often turn into cartwheels*.
Because possibility of goodness is much more appealing than certainty of safety.
*In no way do I mean to imply that I can do cartwheels. It was just the most positive motion I could think of…