I write the way I practice yoga.

To write, to finally sit down and put myself before the blank paper or the flashing cursor, is half the battle. Just as the road to sitting down on a mat is lined with signs telling me to turn back. I swat away excuses circling me like flies until I can finally think.

I show up to write, to stretch, test, and play with words, just as I do my limbs dressed in soft clothing. A bedroom with hardwood floors where I can go to clear my head and break a sweat. A candle lit, a breath inhaled, a moment stolen, an inner story straining to be expressed. It’s all the same.

I don’t always have patience for the slow burn of my thighs as they accept my weight, nor the meandering paragraph meant to be one clean sentence. The perfect bind escapes me when my limbs begin to tremble. Words reshuffled over and over lose meaning and I lose my voice. I stumble.

To write, and to practice yoga, is to settle into presence, into transformation, into prayer. To cut away the day full of empty “how are you’s” and tune into the quiet, astonishing inner “who am I.” To witness the bright mind and graceful body I inhabit yet rarely delight in.

Word for word, breath for breath, a story is told. The person I have to play out in stale, scripted moments all day fades away. A quiet mind, a stretched, warm body, a string of words painstakingly placed in order. The work, for the moment, is done. I let it all go. Blissfully sprawled on the mat, skin cooling and hands outstretched to catch the universe sifting between my fingers. A piece finally complete, 200 hard-fought words in 2 hours. My soul spelled out in black ink. Triumphant, challenged, and exhausted, I arrive.