The whys of it all

A lot of times I wonder why I do this. Why I practice. It’s tiring, it’s frustrating, it takes you to the edge of your patience. Yet I continue to do it. I continue to practice the primary series. I continue to do back bends no matter how deathly afraid I am of them. I continue to jump back and jump through in my chunky, struggling way. I continue to negotiate with my hamstrings and my lower back to cooperate in the poses. Why do I keep doing this to myself? I asked my husband one night. Why do we do anything? He asked in return.

Why indeed?

This is always on my mind every time I step on my mat. And every time, I also ask myself, if I didn’t spend these 90 minutes practicing, what would I be doing instead? Puttering about on social media is the honest answer to that. Not exactly the best way to spend those 90 minutes, so might as well work on myself. The practice is incredibly humbling. It exposes your physical weaknesses first, and then the mental struggles. When I’m faced with a challenging pose (all of them, really), I’m always faced with the choice to stand up and walk away from my mat. Why bother? Why go through it? I could be lying down instead of working on catching my wrist in Marichasana D. But I choose not to. I choose to continue to breathe, and then I get through it in whatever capacity I can on that day, never mind if I catch my wrist or not. And I guess it reflects life off the mat a lot. When faced with a challenge at work, I panic and bitch about it for a few seconds, but eventually I catch my breath and start working on it. No way around but through it, is what they say. And it’s been the same, on and off the mat.

Practicing also restored a sense of wonder in me. Don’t get me wrong, majority of the time, it’s a struggle, but when I do have breakthroughs, when my teacher gives me the confidence to prove my fears wrong, there’s no other feeling like it. What’s even better is it’s from within me, not an external factor or thing, but because of something I did for myself, something I conquered in me. And while non-attachment is essential, I believe it’s those little bursts of joy and wonder that keep me going in an otherwise crazy world (my mind included).

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Nothing

Cheat

Funny how the image of you immediately entered my mind. Not that you would ever admit to anything but innocence.

I will never know what truly happened – perhaps it’s better that way. Betrayal is not an easy emotion to let go of. It always makes its presence felt even when my thoughts are miles away from you. It knows how to get a good grip of me. Too good of a grip.

I was expecting it to be more painful. A gasping, shocking kind. But when you coldly made it known that you no longer wanted me in your life, there was just a dull ache right at the center of my chest. Like my mind had accepted it long before my heart realized what was going on.

Of course I have forgiven you, if there was even anything to forgive. Only you can answer that.

Five years down the road.

I still get caught off guard at how differently things turned out. In the rare instance that you do cross my mind, I am only left with curiosity as to what we would have become. Thankfully, I come up with nothing every time.

 

 

Mani(l)a

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Manila, with its unreasonable enthusiasm for organized chaos, never ceases to amaze and appall me all at once. I’ve lived here for more than half my life and it somehow manages to continue moving towards disorganization. A quick downpour can transform the city into a murky, infectious waterpark. The most wonderful time of the year can turn the streets into a nightmare of stationary headlights and raucous honking. One can rely on the unreliability of public transport, both in system and technicalities.

Yet I continue to wonder why, despite the ugliness and seeming hopelessness of it all, I still unwillingly – curiously – miss it when I am away. Ah, the mystery.

Unconditional love

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An apt reminder. Sometimes we fool ourselves into thinking that if it truly is love, it is supposed to be easy. It’s not. It takes a tremendous amount of work, and while nobody is ever prepared for it, we take it on anyway and stumble and get back up and stumble over and over again. And that’s okay because love is all the good bits and the bad bits, the little heartbreaks and little triumphs in between that remind us that yes, we are human, but we are capable of loving and being loved in all our messy and glorious ways.

I am a closet writer

Among other things. And I use the term “writer” very loosely, though. Like I’ve said before, I don’t really consider myself one, but for the purposes of this entry, let’s pretend I am.

While quite a number of my family and friends know that I write here and there, I don’t proudly broadcast that fact. I don’t think a lot of people in real life know about this blog, or ever will for that matter. The thing is, I have a love/hate relationship with writing. It helps me process my thoughts, let out some steam and unleash what little creativity I have. It also makes me cringe in embarrassment, frustrated to the point of not wanting to finish what I’ve started writing and makes me question why I even bother doing this – which happen WAY TOO OFTEN.

But why? I’ve come up with some reasons, actually, and since this is my blog after all, please bear with me while I psychoanalyze the muse out of me.

– My muse is erratic. Sporadic. Moody. Elusive. Lazy. You get the picture. I could come up with more adjectives, but it might end up hiding from me forever.

– I’m not a good enough writer to make me want to broadcast my work (proudly). I’m not saying this to put myself down or fish for compliments, I am just stating a fact. I’m not good enough because I lack practice. I don’t write as often as I should, so I can’t improve as much as I want. Simple as that.

– I need a more solid reason to want to keep on writing, which I believe is the root cause of all this self-doubt with regards to writing. My conviction to write is not entirely there. I’m not aiming to be published, but I want to improve my ability to express myself through the written word because I’m not as comfortable doing it through speaking – or human interaction in general. I think this has always been one of the biggest reasons why I keep attempting to blog, but it hasn’t been a big enough reason for me to commit to writing and therefore improving. I need to keep searching, or at least find a way to make this reason seem bigger.

Well, it seems like I’ve come to a conclusion of sorts. I don’t know if it’s the right one, but it’s a start in my journey towards becoming a less closeted writer. How about you? What’s your reason for writing?