Write, and open your veins.

Yesterday marked post #200. 

Who woulda thought? 

I began this strange, little blog exactly 15 months ago, and here it still sits, here I keep plugging away.  Sometimes, I think that effort is for me—an outlet, a release, a small, dark cave in which I can keep company with my thoughts for awhile.  Other times, I think the effort is for you, my readers, who are fellow yogis, daughters, sisters, friends, learners, writers, seekers, wanderers, men and women whose names I may not know but whose perspectives and comments I look forward to, each day.

Most times, though, I just come to this corner of the world to write, to reflect, to find some clarity or connection, even if I hardly understand where or why or how I stumble upon it.  Although I certainly doubted this blog at times, I have kept writing all the same.  And now, in reading back through the 15 months of archives, I’m surprised—and, admittedly, pleased—at the progression I see. 

I wrote posts that I read now and can say, “Wow.  I have certainly moved on from that,” or “Shit. Need to keep working on that,” or “Man, how did I forget this lesson already?” 

I wrote posts that I still return to, that I absolutely love, because the words are such a true, honest reflection of myself, my journey. 

I wrote posts no one read, posts hardly anyone read, and posts hundreds of people read. 

I wrote about leaving my first city, Washington, DC, and arriving here in Boston, a hopeful and scared young woman.

I wrote of poetry, of loss, of home.

I wrote about the stresses and hilarities and glories of one Bikram yoga thirty-day challenge, and then another.

The months of entries here chronicle a struggled ascent, an upward hike in which I’ve bled, cried, laughed, grown, collapsed, and lived, vibrantly, happily, hungrily. Some days, I felt oh so alone on that bleak climb.  And other days, you readers rallied behind me like face-painted cheerleaders, pom-poms swinging. 

I am so grateful—for both the lonely days and the love-filled ones. 

And, although writing in this blog can feel awkward, unnerving, scary, empty, insignificant, and pointless—what do I know?!  who cares what I have to say?!  who’s even reading this crap?!—I love that I’ve kept it going, that I continue to return, again and again, to dissect my latest yoga class or to ask questions of myself and my practice or to debate a style of teaching or to say, simply, “These are my thoughts.  Do with them what you will.”

In the end, I am here, still. 

And that—that is good, and right, and freeing, for now.

Only time can tell the rest.