"There are feelings. You haven't felt yet. Give them time. They are almost here." Nayyirah Waheed 
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Dear Yogis, Poets, & Tribe,

How are you traveling? And how are you relating to yourself as you transition within that travel?


I found myself last week in the middle of Boston's damp fog, permeating my insides as I walked along Albany street in what has been an almost year-long process of determining the next place I'll live. And if I look more largely, an eight year process, really. Earlier this year, I obtained an artist certificate from the city of Boston, and so then, having more affordable options made this city open itself to me like a new kind of belonging. Still, as I walked toward the 93 Highway South, toward the green metal underpass to South Boston, and back towards the high rise edge of everything in my past that hadn't gone as hoped or expected, all I could do was hug the insides of myself like a vessel at sea in a storm of concrete, run down parking lots, abandoned buildings, windows half boarded. Close enough to Chinatown that the Asian grocery store stood before me with a name I couldn't decipher. The smile from the stranger I passed on the sidewalk---too close to highway to make walking there anything leisurely---was like temporary flotation, a small smiling hook hoisting me back up to buoyancy.

And that felt to be part of it, how I had seeped out onto the grey desolation around me like I was taking in the aching edges of the city. I wondered if I should turn back. And it was hard again to not feel inconsequential when I entered the building, rising so high up into the sky that it stood like a looming robot holding four hundred something apartments like an unintentional impersonality. The polished floors documenting my entry with the sound of un-plush reason, the bronze sculpture of metal squares hanging modern and aligned within a curved order; I wondered if the shape was to
mimic the movement of fish but they hovered, as if deprived of their own organic innovation.

I toured the building with another artist named Sal who had brought a tape measure and as I held one end and he the other, we tried to measure the four hundred and seventy square foot width of comfort before the yellow tape buckled. All I could feel within me was the lack of furniture, the small empty closet with its miniature metal wire and wood built-ins like that way a dollhouse is open on one side letting you see inside the small, still spaces where you bring the figures to life.

When we left, after Sal and I filled out the sheets for our unit preferences, and we both, from different tables, asked the same question as we looked through the laminated pages of the blue binder--which apartments was it that had the obstructed views?, Sal and I stood outside the entrance like vistas to each other that we both had searched for. Him reflecting myself back to me as he stood with black frame glasses, a half bald head, and two small hoop earrings. Him a creative writing professor whose apartment search has also been heavily steeped in process. Us both then, reflecting one another back to each other and into our own still blossoming, unconventional reality. And so I'm wondering:  how can your own practice of staying with yourself this week through the transitions, and the unexpected places you find yourself standing as you continue to journey further home, invite you to see into the spaces within yourself, and animate them with more self-compassion? 

The next day, after visiting another building where I think I may very well live, I spoke with the Lyft driver about the day before's weather and he called it "dystopian Boston"--- like it had just been weather and factual--- and it again made some more space between the weather outside and in. 

I wonder what might happen this week if you were to linger in the transitions a little longer. Let the noticing allow you to build your life into the poem, employ craft tools to construct its foundation across which can grow the connective tissue. Like that way moving toward a crescendo pose with awareness creates for the body and the heart: destination.  

Creating Our Way Forward 

If you're interested in exploring the ways we can use creative craft, self-awareness, and compassionate contemplation to give voice to the full range of our humanity, come write with me! We'll explore how the sacred, mundane, and profane experiences of our lives are doorways back into deeper connection with ourselves, our writing, each other, and something larger. 

Here's where you can find me at GrubStreet:

Writing with the Self As Witness

Friday, November 30, 10:30am-1:30pm 

Master Poetry
Begins Monday, January 14, 6-9pm Multi-week Class
{By Submission Only}

3 Hours, 3 Poems 
Friday, February 22, 10:30am-1:30pm 

Questions, insights, impressions? As always, hit reply and let me know. 


To Forever Flowing Ink,


Copyright © *2018* *Lindsey O'Neill Yoga & Writing*, All rights reserved.
*You are receiving this email because you noted interest in yoga and writing class updates, and in the ongoing intersection of art, movement, creativity, and life.*

Our mailing address is:
Lindsey O'Neill Yoga & Writing 
On the Yoga Mat & In the Poetic Wilderness
Boston, MA 02116 

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