A recurring theme in the yoga classes I take--and, indeed, I believe for yoga practitioners in general--is to occasionally sit back and observe your own thoughts. Just watch them as they fly by, without really trying to grab hold or judge them.
It's often a surprising exercise for me...the cases from work or the stories in the news that really bother me, when so many that most people would think are horrific don't even make me blink anymore...the memories and people from childhood that I hadn't even remembered I'd forgotten...and the things that delight me, even when I don't realize they're going to and don't fully understand why they do.
I've been a writer since I learned to make letters. I write every single day. Heck, I even get paid for some of it. "Writer" is a title I fully claim. Nonetheless, when my contributor's copy of Kindred showed up last week with my name under the word "writer" my heart did a little happy-glow-dance right there by my mailbox.
Perhaps it's that it's a real, holdable magazine. Perhaps it's because it's such a beautiful piece of work, with contributors that I'm proud to be among. Perhaps it's that my article (on saving seeds) was superimposed over one of Stephinie's gorgeous photographs. Honestly, I'm not sure. I only know that it was a delight, and one I may just have to hold onto, yoga practice be darned.
[And you can still get a copy here. Truly, there were a few bits in this issue that made me do that, "Oh my goodness, you too?" thing, where you realize that you and the writer have shared the exact same experience. I love that. If you like good stories and poetry and photography, you'll enjoy it!]