I wanted to uncurl into the new day like a cat or a wave. But waking up today felt like swatting away spider webs—Obstacles that you can’t see but feel in all directions, spun by a night-spider in the archway of morning. No matter which way I turned--towards the kettle for coffee, downwards to the yoga mat on the living room floor-- I kept finding myself stuck, in what I slowly realized was the material of a dream. The stuckness was in the fact that I couldn’t decide which was more real--the dream (in which I had encountered both a desire and risk of pursuing that desire), or the surface of my life, which kept these passions and fears at bay. I was tangled in a web architectured in the tension between the truth of dreams and the dreamy delusion of routines.
So I collapsed in child’s pose on the maroon mat that extended, tongue-like, on the gray rug, striped by lines of light that had broken through the blinds. It was going to be a beautiful day, someone else’s voice forecasted in my head. But I hungered to feel the beauty in my body, to be warmed by the rays of light and intelligence in the wildwood of my mind. I reached for a book about freeing the unconscious of the writer. I queued up a 30 minute youtube on “power yoga for women.” I even did the dishes. But, when my heart-rate lowered and I remembered how I’d failed to post biweekly more often than not, I knew there was something I wouldn’t be able to shake today. Like a dog who’s rolled in mud, the undeniable substance of my dream weighed and draped over my eyes, so eventually I just stopped and sat where I was and began to paw at the keyboard, howling at the wild and lost thing inside. The only way out of my web was through.