I often feel a bit sheepish admitting that my daily yoga and meditation practices aren’t motivated by a desire to be spiritual or virtuous. Let me share why I make time for them.
Last Monday started off like a dream. I woke up to a fresh cup of coffee, lovingly brewed by my partner, and we spent some quality time in his cozy living room tackling emails. While sharing a long-winded story, he gestured at his screen, signaling it was time for me to pause. Surprisingly, I felt good about it; who doesn’t appreciate a partner with boundaries?
I finished a draft of an essay that I thought turned out pretty well. Although the sun was shining, rain was in the forecast, which oddly lifted my spirits. California is experiencing a drought that most outsiders might not care about, but it’s good to know that one day it could affect food supplies. For now, at least, things seemed to be in order, which relieved a bit of stress.
Contrary to popular belief, I don’t dread Mondays. In fact, I enjoy working—moderation is key, though. I believe five hours is a solid workday for a writer. It leaves time for reading, daydreaming, and spending time with humorous friends to snag their jokes. That’s actually part of why I got divorced: I realized I needed time to be with someone whose humor resonated with me.
However, my pleasant Monday took a downturn when I ventured out for toast and ended up ordering what could only be described as the worst cappuccino ever. As I set it aside, I couldn’t help but reflect on how I’ve never before faced even a mediocre cappuccino. After a lifetime of enjoying great coffee, the shock was palpable. I couldn’t return it, so I resorted to a petty act of shoving a napkin into my drink, creating what looked like a crime scene.
When the barista approached and asked if I was finished, I replied with a snippy smile that suggested I was taking the moral high ground, even though I felt anything but gracious.
Later, I went to the office I share with another woman, a man, and a lovable black Labrador. Some days, the dog’s soulful eyes are my only connection to sanity, while other days, I question his presence as he chews on a slimy toy. I sat down to write a pitch for an editor who is more organized than I am, which naturally intimidated me. Despite my best efforts to jot down facts, the words seemed devoid of life.
As I wrestled with writer’s block, the thought of skipping yoga crossed my mind. I knew that if I didn’t get anything done, the temptation to forgo my practice would be strong, clinging to the hope of an impending breakthrough. But if I chose to skip, I risked getting caught in a cycle of frustration where I’d eventually realize I had squandered the time I could have used to reset my mind.
After three hours of uninspired writing, I decided what I truly wanted was a hamburger. So, I indulged.
Returning to the office, I shot a dirty look at the dog and declared his toy disgusting. My colleague promptly took the dog out, providing me a moment of relief from the noise. I attempted to write again, caught between humility and arrogance about my craft. On one hand, writing badly was just part of the process; on the other, I clung to the hope that brilliance would strike soon.
As afternoon dragged on, my mood soured. The thought of attending yoga felt daunting. I craved freedom—freedom to vent to friends or sip on a cocktail, which always seems to ease the tension, at least for a while. Plus, I was dreading the idea of being around people; I only wanted to be surrounded by characters from my favorite show, not real-life individuals.
Yet, I forced myself to go. I paid my $16 and rolled out my mat in the corner. A couple with matching mohawks greeted me with an overly friendly vibe, and I resigned myself to endure an hour and a half of yoga. Surprisingly, the experience didn’t elevate my spirits any more than the rest of my day had.
The instructor launched into his usual motivational spiel about the beauty of existence, but all I could think was how I wished he would just stop talking. Even though I appreciated him, I found myself half-heartedly participating in the class. The meditation portion, usually around ten minutes, stretched to twenty, and I spent half of it worrying about my finances and the other half fretting over whether I’d left my iPad on my car.
When class ended, my friend Rachel raved about the experience, and I shrugged, saying it was “not particularly amazing.” I drove home, made some fried eggs and toast, and finally sank into the bath I had longed for earlier. Without the vodka I thought I needed, I allowed myself to cry—a release from the pressures of feeling like I always had to find something to be unhappy about before I could appreciate anything.
Eventually, I laughed at my own ungratefulness. How lucky was I to have the opportunity to soak in a warm bath at the end of a long day?
The following day unfolded much like the last, but I did manage to discover who made a great cappuccino and decided to order from her. I’ve learned that if I don’t tend to the practical aspects of life, my spiritual practices can easily fall flat.
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