I've long loved the word sinewy, in general, I am a lover of words that are uncommon in daily speech. The words that often find their way to the page are the way I think, the way I speak, so much so that in our early days together, my now-wife would say that I speak as if I'm a book much of the time. This might sound romantic, yet it's often cause for many folk to look at me like I've two heads. The word conjures up the lean, golden arms of a boy in his prime, the summer after graduation, perhaps the year of my birth...when the world seems so free and open and he feels invincible, so he slips a pack of cigarettes into the pocket of his faded tee. One word, and I've this character so real it's as if I know him.
I'm writing briefly this morning as I finish my coffee, an intention I'm setting to write and write to share, yet there's also a yoga mat waiting, another intention set. I've been told my resolutions this year are quite ambitious, and I agree. I think they should be. I find it's all too easy to become complacent, to walk through life in a fog. I spend too many evenings wasting away in front of shows I've seen a million times over, instead of in the thickness of a book or curled up with my work, any of my life's work, my loves, my writing, my very body that enables me so much.
If I've found myself sluggishly moving, I've not set enough for myself to seek after. I've not paid mind to truth and growth and being. The first afternoon of the new year was spent in the company of academics and conversation that hasn't left me, a reminder that while I can hold my own, there's still so much to know, to ingest, to be.
Perhaps it's funny to seek someone I once was, then, as aspiration. The barefoot woman who'd gather her mat and retreat away from the crowd of a campsite and begin, a threadbare scarf found in Tillamook wrapped about her head. A daily practice, a ritual that left my body strong, my own arms sinewy, my mind alert, my heart open. I've found myself a bit like a broken record in my pithy survival, yet retrospect reminds me of my capability. That discipline can be had, that practice is simple, that the very act of intention can spill over, and over, and over again. So I have set, and I will seek, right where I stand.