All the fixings.

Growing up, I was taught no one is responsible for me but me.

Only I can unhinge myself from the steely, sharp claws of a bad mood.  Only I can forgive myself for wrong doings.  You cannot “make” me feel better—I choose, consciously, that better state of mind.  Nothing he says or does fixes anything—I make peace, with me, with this heart. 

Why is that we are so inclined to turn outside our selves for salves to heal our splintered nerves, our fractured expectations, our trampled attempts at love? 

Why is it that people so casually and comfortably place their broken selves into another’s hands?  Laziness?  Disinterest?  Fear?

“Fix yourself, by yourself.” 

That’s what my yoga teacher said to me last night.

And I thought, “How apt.  How perfectly timed,” given my disconnection of late with the slightly broken body that keeps me these days. 

My back feels kinked and crooked.  I can’t shake a dull ache in my left shoulder.  And I have a nagging, pinching nerve running down the ridge of my right hamstring.  I’ve ignored these irritations the past month or so, as I’ve whittled my yoga practice down to just three or maybe four classes per week and chalked these ailments up to being “sore” from when I do finally make it to the studio.

These next 30 days, though, all of this yoga, will help me focus again on the fixing rather than the ignoring.

Because, let’s face it, what we ignore festers.  Feeds on and of itself.

Fix yourself, by yourself. 

On Sunday night, I indulged myself in reading through some of my old journals, going as far back as 2006, when I first started my yoga practice.  I used to page through my collection of journals quite often; in recent years, I’ve shelved their leatherbound pages on a tall, dusty bookshelf of my past.  I seldom visit them.  But, there they stand, at the ready, to remind me of who and where I once was. 

As I flicked through the scribbled writings of long ago months, I found an entry from last year, as I was coming back to the Bikram studio after a five-month hiatus and as I was settling into my new city, my new life, here in Boston.  I confess homesickness, heart sickness, confusion, doubt, worry.  I cry.  I scream on the crisp, cream-colored paper. 

It was a tangled, emotional spasm of words, hardly legible in some places, until the end, when I wrote this:

“This is all just pissing and moaning, I know.  So begins the pep talk, the rally. Cue the fucking cheerleaders.  So begins the attempt to pick up the pieces of self I’ve strewn about, to find balance, to open again.  It’s amusing, really, how well I know the drill. 

Nothing fixes me…but me.  I understand this. 

God damn it, though.  Sometimes, like tonight, in this splitting headache of a second, I just want a handyman to come by, survey the damage, price me a quote, and send in the repair team.”

I chuckled a little when I read this.  I wanted to hug that self.  I wanted to praise her for trying, in whatever way she could, to reconcile her frustrations and pay them heed and then start anew, once again, even if she was alone and lonely and scared.  And, somehow, clearly, still hopeful.

Instead, I took that self, her, me, to yoga.  I heard the knowing words of my past as I listened to my body crack and ease.  And I heard that teacher’s words.

And, through the sweat, through the grim determination lined across my brow, I smiled, settling in for a good fixing.

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p.s. Jen, who keeps a lovely food-related blog over at Fueled by Plants, is joining me in my thirty-day challenge!  Read about her journey here.