Around here, I’m different just like everyone else.  It’s a cashmere sweater in July – comfortable but not what I need.  Everyone’s pretty much the same no matter where you go.  The big question is what I’m doing.  Productivity measured in time or money doesn’t make any sense.  The amount of words is a gauge for how much time I’ve put in but it doesn’t reflect any kind of worth.  The only thing I have to go on is my gut.  That’s what got me into this mess. 

I’m a writer.  That much is established. I can sit down and force a few hundred words out whenever I want.  I can even make the words go together in a semblance of a story.  I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up but there’s a chance I might have created a world where vampires are real and they feed on vitality and innovation instead of blood.  Basically I figure the biggest threat to an immortal being is becoming a boring husk of a creature that doesn’t find any joy in life.  These vampires solve that by latching on to creative people and narcissistically appropriating their accomplishments and talent.  Anyway, I’m working on that.

I’m also a yogini.  After 3 weeks I have started balancing in headstand.  A yoga intensive with a seasoned Iyengar teacher is like submitting to a lie detector test about your practice.  Any deficits stand out and laziness is laid bare.  My desire to teach is more powerful than ever and, more importantly, I can see myself doing it.  I don’t know where or when but I’m sure it will happen.  I just have to keep reminding myself that I’m only the messenger.  The people who really get it are going to start their own yoga journey.  The rest can come to class once a week and enjoy the diversion.

The rest of what I am is yet-to-be-discovered.  I might be an outstanding employee somewhere.  A long awaited friend and companion.  Someone’s mother.  A fashionable hobo.  A music critic for The Stranger.  Who knows?