I wanted a picture of rain to start this post. First the picture, then the words. Lately that is my “practice.” (Somehow “practice” feels like too big a word to apply to the habit of blogging, and yet given the nature of this blog—the commitment to writing and yoga and seeking the places where they overlap—it seems fitting, too.) All the rainy day pictures I found I would contemplate for a moment, and then reject.
A girl playing in a pond with an umbrella and rainboots—too happy!
A woman in a city—Paris maybe, or London—with an umbrella, ducking under an awning—too romantic!
A hiker contemplating a glorious, rainy vista—too inspiring.
No, I was looking for a picture of the monsoon of this morning, the dirty rivers of trash we had to continually jump over, the thunder and lightning that seemed to be hounding us, the flipped-up umbrellas that offer no protection, the soaking-wet pants, the wet backpack doing a poor job of protecting my laptop, the kids huddled with a friend waiting for the subway dreaming about about staying home drinking hot chocolate and lounge around in pillow forts, the cranky commuters. forgoing the bike or the walk to work that would have lifted their moods, instead dripping and shoving off and onto the trains smelling like wet dogs.
I fight against the urge to check something, anything—news, another blog, Twitter, email, text messages. I resist but also try to be flexible in that resistance. I tell myself it is not about fighting off the urge to check something, which comes when I am unsure of what I next want to say, or can’t find the photograph I think I need, but more about giving my attention to this little piece of writing, to this little space on the computer screen, to this moment I’m luck enough to have. I know the focused attention I give today it won’t necessarily make this post any better, but over time, the attention I give this practice will improve it, if only by improving my ability to attend to the task at hand, to quiet other voices, to give myself space to not necessarily be witty or clever or wise, to smile at the critic’s voice that rushes in: If the post isn’t witty or clever or wise, why are you posting it? Why should someone else read something you don’t think is particularly worthwhile? Shouldn’t you wait until you have something better? To that critic, I will reply that it is good advice for an essay, short story, novel, poem or song. But the nature of the blog is an open-ness to the everydayness of who we are.
One thing occurs to me, as I think of my need to offer photographic proof of the hectic, rainy morning—why is that important? Everyone around me is experiencing the same hectic, rainy morning, and if that is the major obstacle of the day, we are lucky indeed. When I think of the cozy longed-for scene of hot chocolate in pillow forts, I know it is coziest of all when dreamed of from a cold, wet subway platform. The rainy, hectic morning gave the image of cozy abundance it is often hard to replicate on the most perfect spring day.