This probably won't be a fifteen minumte post, but since it's the first day, perhaps I should just be thankful that I'm writing.
Last night the new eight week session of yoga started and it was a killer. My back, shoulders, and arms feel awareness that they haven't felt before. I need to go home and do about thirty minutes of yoga, but I don't know if I will. It seems like if I don't do it in the morning, then it doesn't get done.
I am between books right now, which is a pretty weird feeling. I've been reading, thanks to Julie, a solid book a week for the past ten weeks or so (I know, I have to update this blog, for sure!). The summer always seems attached to a book or a string of books. For that matter so does Christmas. I remember the one Christmas I sat down and read The Secret Life of Bees and cried and cried. I would still be crying now, except we had to move to Missouri.
I'm fairly sure we're going to be late to dinner tonight. We're eating at the Indian resturant with Jana Owen. I love eating at the Indian place. Really, I suppose I enjoy eating any place rather than eating that place's food at my house. I may be the only person I know who feels this way, or at least the only person I am with much :)
This has been seven or eight minutes of solid writing. Yet, what will be done with it? Probably nothing. It will most likely stay unread. But it is thereaputic to write in a stream of conciousness for several minutes. Almost like doing mountain pose.
Obviously I didn't write fifteen minutes a day in July. On this. But, I did write a few minutes each day. I wish I had worked on something more tangible instead of on essays for the PhD. I'm excited about the possibility of writing something besides academic pieces soon.
2 comments:
This probably won't be a fifteen minumte post, but since it's the first day, perhaps I should just be thankful that I'm writing.
Last night the new eight week session of yoga started and it was a killer. My back, shoulders, and arms feel awareness that they haven't felt before. I need to go home and do about thirty minutes of yoga, but I don't know if I will. It seems like if I don't do it in the morning, then it doesn't get done.
I am between books right now, which is a pretty weird feeling. I've been reading, thanks to Julie, a solid book a week for the past ten weeks or so (I know, I have to update this blog, for sure!). The summer always seems attached to a book or a string of books. For that matter so does Christmas. I remember the one Christmas I sat down and read The Secret Life of Bees and cried and cried. I would still be crying now, except we had to move to Missouri.
I'm fairly sure we're going to be late to dinner tonight. We're eating at the Indian resturant with Jana Owen. I love eating at the Indian place. Really, I suppose I enjoy eating any place rather than eating that place's food at my house. I may be the only person I know who feels this way, or at least the only person I am with much :)
This has been seven or eight minutes of solid writing. Yet, what will be done with it? Probably nothing. It will most likely stay unread. But it is thereaputic to write in a stream of conciousness for several minutes. Almost like doing mountain pose.
Namaste
Obviously I didn't write fifteen minutes a day in July. On this. But, I did write a few minutes each day. I wish I had worked on something more tangible instead of on essays for the PhD. I'm excited about the possibility of writing something besides academic pieces soon.
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