Day 18 is, in some ways, more challenging. With early morning commitments, no chance to get away during the day, and an evening work call smack dab in the middle of any hope of joining a class at Urban Yoga, I find myself under an enormous amount of self-inflicted pressure to practice, even when it becomes quickly clear that there is no chance I can join a class.
While there is the option to practice at home of course, I decide to instead take a rest day, forgiving myself as I would a friend for not showing up because sometimes, life gets in the way, but also sometimes, we really really don’t feel like it.
Instead, I meditate with some laundry, folding, washing, hanging, methodically and unthinkingly. I do the dishes, I throw out the recycling and clean the fridge. I catch up on a couple of podcasts, enriching my wellbeing through the words of Malcolm Gladwell, Phoebe Judge and Ira Glass. I potter around the house, putting everything in its place, and creating a place for everything. I watch an episode of Brooklyn 99. I even respond to a few looming Whatsapps.
It’s not glamorous, and it all sits in a category I like to call “fake productivity”, i.e. things that you can pay someone else a fraction of what your time is worth to do, but which nevertheless bring you an inner peace that one can only derive from a sense of achievement. It feels nice, and strangely, I’m not even mad at myself, nor feeling defensive or apologetic when I mention to friends that I simply couldn’t make it to yoga today.
If this isn’t progress, I don’t know what is.