My Boulder landlady labeled the key to my apartment with a little sticker that says "Lawn," which distinguishes it from the "Door" and "Main" keys. In the proper context, these stickers all signify something, except that I'm certain "Lawn" signifies "laundry," and should therefore be spelled "Laun." More importantly, "Lawn" opens my front door, "Door" opens my laundry room, and "Main" opens the door to the whole house, which is never, ever locked, rendering "Main" meaningless. Or rather, functionless.
I drove away from Salt Lake City after finishing my Master's in English Literature just over a month ago. A loss I suffered but never mourned. For a few weeks, I felt relief. Then excitement, then happiness, then boredom. And now I feel like I'm standing always in the vicinity of a brick wall. A wall that, out of the corner of my eye, looks small and like I can go around it, even if I can't go over it. Except every time I look at it straight on, it's just a wall, no end in sight, no way around. Every night, I feel a tinge of something like restlessness and anxiety and maybe anger. And I can't figure out why. I know the answer is obscured by the wall. I feel a painful need to do something, but I can't imagine what that something is. That something that will give me a release, click me into place, crash me through the wall.
When I nailed bakasana for the first time, the click happend when I shifted my gaze forward two inches. Suddenly my head and my focus were giving my muscles and my body the space they needed to maintain the pose. It was like putting the "Lawn" key into my front door after five frustrating minutes of jamming "Door" around in the lock. Click.
But where is that click now? Where should I be focusing my gaze? What mislabeled key grants me access to wherever I need to be that will allow me to accomplish all the things I need to accomplish?
Gratitude is a start. It's why I keep a blog. It's why I post a billion photos on facebook. Patience. Willful intention. But still I feel like I'm in the shadow of this wall, or maybe in a well. Murakami's well. Come to think of it, this all started when Mr. Wind-Up Bird went down into that well. My air, like his, growing staler by the moment. I thought I'd find the answer in the creek. I didn't. I thought it'd be on a bike ride. It wasn't. I thought maybe it'd be on the driveway of my childhood home where I used to take vicoden and fall asleep under the stars listening to the Smashing Pumpkins. No. I thought maybe my brother took it with him north of the arctic circle. But he came back empty handed, at least for purposes of my escaping this new, strange weight. I'm open to suggestions. How to fit myself more effectively into whatever shaped hole is currently surrounding me. Some life I'm not living. This has to do with writing. And doubt. I know it does. But I can't put my finger on it. I don't hear anything down here...