I blame Lizzy for my lack of inspiration right now.
Lizzy is one of my dearest friends from college, and she’s temporarily staying with me here in Washington, D.C., as she trains for the rowing national team. We were roommates for three years at school, for one year in the dorms and for two years off campus in a house with four other girls, and in the four days she’s been living with me, we’ve already caught ourselves reverting back to our old roommate selves numerous times. Giggling senselessly, telling mundane stories, venting, interrupting each other, being embarrassingly silly and strange, but still trying our very best to be respectful and quiet and polite, since we’re adults now and all.
For example: Last night, Lizzy was lying on her air mattress of a bed (God love her), and I was sitting here at my desk, furiously typing away on my little iBook, and Lizzy said from underneath her pillow, “I feel like I’m back in the dorms lying in bed listening to you write a paper.” We laughed loudly at this memory, at the moment’s hilarity. Yes, how fondly we both remembered those days!
And tonight, as I sat at the same desk, tapping my forehead, struggling to think what I wanted to say, Lizzy kept interrupting my thoughts with little comments about her day, questions about mine, thoughts about her training, ideas for her possible employment, inquiries about my yoga practice. I kept responding to her, as I always do (anyone would agree it’s hard not to respond and pay attention to her), but also kept trying, in vain, to return to my writing, too.
Finally, she jokingly said, “Are you having trouble concentrating?? You can just blame me for distracting you.”
We laughed again, reminiscing on how many times we distracted each other as roommates, and then I promptly turned my back to this screen and faced my dear friend and indulged in good, humorous, Lizzy conversation for 45 minutes instead of writing.
After all, how often do I get to have before-bedtime conversations with her anymore? How much longer will I have her all to myself, here in my little, crowded apartment? I must remember to value these moments.
Tonight, I finished my 20th class. I completed every single posture and only took one sip of water before the first savasana. And at the end, after we’d finished our final breathing exercise, I leaned forward on my mat, pressed my forehead against the wet, sweaty towel, and smiled, closing my eyes and thinking, 20 days, 20 days, 20 days…
I knew I was capturing a precise and perfect few seconds of clarity and pride.
I laid on my mat for a few more minutes, grinning stupidly, and then I hurried upstairs, hurried getting dressed, hurried to my car. After all, I had a friend at home—not waiting for me, per say, because Lizzy is very much living her own life here. But, still. It’s a fun, new change of pace to have someone say “hello!” when I walk through the door. I appreciate it.
And I’m trying to remember to value the moments, with my friend and with myself, in and outside my yoga studio. After all, live in the moment, not for the moment is my yoga mantra.
Because in the end, recognizing a moment, burying myself it fully, wrapping my very arms around its belly and holding on for dear life, is really what this whole damn practice—and life, my friends—is for.