Last Friday afternoon I was poised as if on a diving board: I wanted to plunge headlong into the weekend and land in a feather bed. The antidote to a bearish week was a bit of a pleasurefest. I had dinner with friends, rustic lamb ragu and rough red wine. I stayed in bed for a criminally long time on Saturday reading Bel Canto and drinking coffee. I turned on the stove that night and stood at the cutting board peeling potatoes and shredding kale. I made a steak. I was listening to Anything Goes, and life felt very quietly good.
And also itchy. When life is placid and nice, do you ever feel like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop? That now, when it’s quiet, is not when it’s time to enjoy; it’s time to scramble to prepare for whatever’s coming next?
Sunday morning, in the brightness of daylight savings, I just barely made it to yoga. My teacher sat at the front of the room and talked about getting back to basics. (She tends to be sort of telepathic in her timing.) We took strong standing poses, and then refined them. We looked at our feet, sealing all four corners into the floor, working that pinkie toe like it was a circus strong man instead of a wee little thing. We created a rock-solid foundation from the ground up.
In the first days of January, I proudly touted my basics. But by mid-March I seem to have lost interest in them precisely because they’re fundamentals. Something in me thought there should be something more, apparently, than the expressions of love, community, and creativity already in my life. A manicure? Tap dance lessons? A vacation? A baby? A new pair of jeans? Next, next, next.