How We Met

"Paths that cross will cross again." - Patty Smith

Dear Friends,

I think it’s pretty cool that our paths have crossed and we have this opportunity to be connected. I know many of you have come my way via Substack, but the vast majority of you I’ve met in person. Many of us know each other as friends, parents, or writers; most of us know each other through yoga.

Perhaps we practiced together at Miami University, or in Chicago, New York or Montauk. Perhaps we practiced together once in the fall of 2003 or every Tuesday for years. Perhaps we’ve shared a teacher, or we’re friends of friends. Maybe we met back when I made my playlists on Winamp or Napster. Or during the era of endless sun salutations and thousands of flowing standing poses. Maybe I helped you balance in a handstand or I asked you to demonstrate a backbend. Were you by chance in that class when I asked everyone to do cat/cow while pretending to write the alphabet with their tailbone? I wonder if I gave you those heavenly adjustments in savasana, and we chanted the Gayatri Mantra together. Or if you’re the couple who came in on an early date and couldn’t stop giggling and now you’re married with a baby. It could be you held the door open for me after class and we ran out into the rain on a cool evening laughing. Perhaps it’s all of the above?

Or it could be that we met in a writer’s class, a cafe, picking up the kids, or through Kristin McGee, genine lentine, Kendra Peterson, or Treat Motivated . In fact, I’d love for you to share a memory of how we met. That would sincerely make my day. Last night, I was giving my son a hug, and he said, “Mommy you look happy and sad.” I smiled and said, “That’s nostalgia buddy.”

Nostalgic pretty much sums up my mood lately. Maybe it’s a symptom of being in my forties, living in a new place, kids becoming teenagers, or my husband going grey. But I keep thinking, how did we get here? Sifting through memories for gold, but experiencing that dusty vintage store smell as well.

Ten years ago, I was pregnant, and I felt compelled to start writing poetry again. I had been reading Mary Oliver, Hafiz, Rumi and other mystical poets in class for years. Then, all of a sudden, there was an explosion of young (living) poets posting poems on social media and I thought, I could do that.

I started walking to Washington Square Park every morning before heading to the yoga studio for the day. I wrote springtime observations like, A new leaf feels soft and velvety, after touching a large yellow beech leaf. I also wrote blustery October thoughts like, Perhaps you can forgive yourself when you realize the leaves on the trees turn upside down when it’s going to rain—they can’t help it, it’s their nature.

Most of what I wrote wasn’t compact enough for IG, and I decided I didn’t want to limit myself to thinking in captions. Also, posting took so much longer than I thought it should. I would perfect over a post for an hour, not be satisfied with it, not know exactly why, and it would feel as futile as blow drying my hair on a humid day. If I sat there too long, editing a post, the press of reality surrounded me from all sides; a vice of needs narrowed in on me.

I had more to write than I realized, and yet none of it was ready for prime time. But one thing I knew for sure, I loved moving words around on a page.

I lived in Chelsea at the time, but shortly after my son was born, we moved to Greenwich Village, a poetry epicenter. I met other poets and writers when I went for my daily walks. Everyone asked if I knew this poet or that writer. Each namedrop an invitation to look-up and read an appreciated author. The other day I reorganized my library by genre. So now all my poetry books are alphabetized, as are all my non-fictions and novels. It was a treasure to realize how much my poetry collection in particular has grown.

As I’ve moved towards spending the majority of my professional time on creative writing, I now practice yoga mostly on my own, but I’m nostalgically grateful for my intensive yoga years. I want to acknowledge I know this is a hybrid space. Sometimes I share poetry, essays, meditations, practices, but always with the intention of looking at something familiar in a new way from multiple perspectives. Most importantly, what I want to write this week, above all, from the soles of my feet and the tips of my fingers is, Thank You for being on this journey with me.

Warmly,

Joyce