Here's one that nearly had me in tears: An Open Letter to the Fat Girl I saw at Hot Yoga in NYC. The part that got me?
Oh Fat Girl at Hot Yoga in New York, are you at war with yours, too? Has it let you down? Are you angry with it? I am. Righteously furious, actually.
This stupid body that has failed me in so many ways these last two years. It has been endlessly sick. It has required surgery and bed rest and vicious medication that got me well, but made me feel sicker.
I AM VERY ANGRY WITH IT for being sick, for getting fat, for not doing what I SAY.
But I am nice to it anyway, three times a week, at Hot Yoga.
Because I am A-OK, ALL FULL UP, TOTALLY ON BOARD with the being angry at my body. I would excel in that class, were it offered. But I'm sorely lacking in the being nice to it anyway department. She says 3 times a week for 75 minutes, she cuts herself a break, takes this class. I can't remember the last time I had a nice thought about my body and what it was able to do. When even breathing hurts, it's hard to be happy that you're taking a breath. It's hard, but it shouldn't be impossible. So I'm going to work on that.
Then there's the beautiful Kate, over at sweet|salty, who writes (with such grace and clarity) about something a feeling that is neither graceful nor clear:
The word 'anxiety', especially preceded with the word 'my', needs to be benignly neglected in the way that you ought to benignly neglect that kid who keeps saying the f-word at supper. The word 'anxiety', in its reference to a constant and entirely unspecial human state, needs a yoga retreat with a workshop about how inspiration is a myth that will only stunt its creative process and land it in the 75% of writers who will never type The End.
She talks about fitting in, and excluding yourself anyways; about jumping into the ocean and braving sharks, but hiding away while your friends roast marshmallows. She talks about living, really. And fear.
Sometimes, it's nice to know that other people are on the same page as you. That's how I felt when I read this post from Black Hockey Jesus:
Do you remember, little girl, where we were when we read that book? There was no you or me or the circus of problems where the mind loves to play. We weren’t in a bed in an apartment nor could we be confused with the characters in The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane. We were simply gone. We gave way. We became the empty place where stories arrive, where they show, come to be told, appear, where they happen. Because it happened, didn’t it?
The magic of reading is overwhelming sometimes, and in his letter to his daughter, BHJ manages to capture that so, so well.
Lastly, there's this, a quote I had in my files for a while, but I saw it somewhere this week, and it was like a life preserver. Delivering some hope, when I need it most:
It doesn't matter how long we may have been stuck in a sense of our limitations. If we go into a darkened room and turn on the light, it doesn't matter if the room has been dark for a day, a week, or ten thousand years -- we turn on the light and it is illuminated. Once we control our capacity for love and happiness, the light has been turned on.
See you guys tomorrow!