With one leg stretched out in back, one tucked under me, and my forehead to the floor (pigeon pose for the yoga-literate), I have to fight a bit to keep my thoughts towards my yoga instructor from heading towards the profane. My run-tired thighs are pissed, and my hips want to stay closed thank you very much. There are poses I could happily sit in for days, but every minute I spend in pigeon is a struggle.
But, as one of my music teachers used to say, "Why would you waste time practicing the easy parts?" So I battle on and try to send only nice energy out as I do.
Blogging about your own life stretches you in ways that are hard to imagine when you start. For the first few years no one was reading, so it didn't much matter what I wrote. And then my close friends and family were, but we never talked about it in real life, so it still didn't much matter what I wrote. Then strangers started reading, and all of a sudden my life started to feel a little "out there". Of course, some of those strangers have become good friends, but still.
It's something I'm aware of--particularly since the Kid came along--but letting it be restrictive, particularly as to the stories that are truly mine to tell, feels cowardly. There will always be things that aren't in good taste to share, but not hitting publish because I'm afraid...well, that's just not how I roll.
Which is all a long lead-up to say that I wrote a little post on Mamalode today, that I hope you'll go read--Tiger Stripes. Continuing--quite literally--on what is quickly becoming my theme for the year, it was a stretch to hit the submit button, but, after a long time percolating on it, I think it was good for me.