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February 21, 2019: Finding My Journal

People write a lot about losing things. But seldom do they write about finding things. Finding things comes down to a single statement, which is “Oh, I left it THERE.” That is, they say this about found items. Some things are never found by their last owner. They either remain where they are, or they’re found by someone else. Some items are returned to their respective owners. It all depends on what the object is worth to the loser in relation to the finder. In order for the loser to get back what they lost, the scales need to be 50/50.

I found my yoga journal (in of all places) in the backseat of Deathtrap XL5, my vehicle on wheels. Odd, I didn’t see it on Monday,

Alys's Journal
Alys's Journal

when I drove to strength training class. No, this was not odd. I took a ride to strength training with Pete on Monday. So it had been a week since I’d last climbed behind the wheel of Deathtrap.

It makes sense that my journal was where it was. I must have left the yoga studio with it in hand and headed out the door. I then toss it in the back seat before leaving the Colostomy Building Parking lot. And I left it there when I got home because my mind was then on other things, like feeding hungry animals.

I’m now glad that I tossed it in the back seat because I would have had to explain to the class instructor that I’d lost it. She would then have pulled it out from under the counter and said “here it is.” She then would have given me that half-smile that those who by virtue of being yoga instructors give to those who are students. Yes, they are mindful and we are mindless. Grovel until you have your own damn class to teach.

I’m also glad that I tossed it my journal in the back seat of the car because had she claimed it, she might have read it. Oh Oh. I am supposed to be writing about the benefits of yoga. I had not (yet) written anything incriminating about the class being too large or the rather inconsistent instruction. Nor had I mentioned that I’m a possible interloper, hired by Mat-Su College to determine if she should be allowed to continue to teach Yoga 101.

Rather, what I’ve been writing would be of absolutely no interest to any audience other than myself. I have some lists, and a journal entry that’s a conversation with my subconscious. The latter has possibilities – I’m thinking of writing a book entitled “Me with Me.” And even though it didn’t get dispatch status, my entry on the benefits of external strength training got me to thinking some about how I might use the concepts in doing horsey homeschooling.

I didn’t want to have to deal with the yoga instructor’s lack of knowledge about the ins and outs of journal writing because she would not be receptive to what I have to say. She’s the mindful teacher and I’m the mindless student. Our roles are cast in stone and written on the undersides of our mats.

I’m glad to now have this journal back in hand. In a short while here, I’ll go to class and flip through the pages of my journal so that my yoga instructor can see that I’m going through the motions of doing the assignment. I’ll show her the loose pages that constitute “Losing my Journal,” and “Finding my Journal.” She will nod – though we both know that she won’t get it. Most yoga instructors never do.

Next: 53. 2/22/19: Chilled to the Bone

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