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Sounds a little dramatic, doesn’t it? Don’t worry though, nothing’s as bad as you might imagine. And I’d be sorry about causing you any alarm, ‘cept I’m always a sucker for a catchy headline. Also, I’m a sucker for tall men with broad shoulders, dark hair, blue eyes and an accent. In case you were wondering.

So hold the panic because really I’m just talking about being betrayed by my otherwise healthy body with this… well apparently the technical term is “wry neck”.

Wry. My neck is wry.

Or perhaps awry?

One of those. It’s basically being a total biatch and causing the rest of my being (physical and otherwise) untold misery. It’s that special sort of pain that’s so pointy and stabby that even a 10ml dosage of it forces you to breathe in tiny pitiful gasps. And that ain’t no pranayama, folks!

Woke up this morning and while that un-delectable haze of being stoned on pain-killers/muscle relaxants (I’d actually forgotten what it’s like to get high, it’s been sooooo long!) had worn off, my neck had not relented overnight.

See? Betrayal right there, everybody!

Although still rather snoozy from a lack of restful-type sleep, I honourably attempted to hustle myself into a fit state for my day job. Only to discover that it actually wasn’t possible. I basically felt (‘scuse the language) royally fucked – although without any of the fun parts (and now that I mention it, if you’d like to make an advance birthday wish for me and on my behalf, I wouldn’t mind being royally fucked in the whoo-hoo-oh-yeah kinda way as well. *ahem*).

Betrayed by my body. Gah! And we’ve become such good friends lately. All this yoga-ing and teaching yoga etc has been such a love-in for my body and I. So this is…unsettling. Although it was clear to me this was a muscle thing and not a bones or joints thing. And I needed some help. Quick.

Did the ring around and eventually snagged myself a remedial massage appointment for 11am. Of course, Melbourne’s tropical downpours continued today (our second day of Summer, dammit) but my choices were to venture out anyway, or remain lying supine and most pathetically on the floor of my apartment for who knows how long.

I had to go.

Massage helped a whole lot, although it was no magic tonic for dissolving the freak-out attack my neck and upper back muscles appear to be engaged in. But I think I regained about 10-15% range of motion back. Which is like, hey, time for a party. Right? Okay, maybe not…

And then I might’ve gone into work after that because perhaps there was a meeting I really wanted to have at that particular time. And people there – my comrades in the day job – might’ve ever-so-slightly mocked me with the nickname R2D2 (referring to that droid’s inability to move it’s head separately from it’s neck, get it?).

But I did do those things (otherwise I might’ve been extremely bored hanging out at home, just me and my wry neck) and I survived the very monsoon-like conditions and am now resting (?at my writing desk?) with the Heat Pack of Fortitude draped over my shoulders.

The point in telling you all of this wasn’t just to whinge about my sad and sorry (but ultimately impermanent) condition. It’s more about the fact that despite all of the madness, temporary (legal) drug use and ridiculous impersonations of robots from Star Wars… in that cacophony my mind somehow managed to convey some useful stuff.

That would be the brimming bagfuls of possibility. There’s two brimming bagfuls, actually.

Of course, these ideas have been banging around various corners of my noggin for a while now. I keep wanting to talk about them and then I get all superstitious and tell myself that doing so might just be the death knell for those bagfuls. Which is of course, quite ridiculous.

But hey, fear knows how to play dirty.

Brimming bagful #1

Ever since my appointment with Kerry, I’m painfully aware that I’ve avoided doing anything about getting my writing out there a little more. Kerry suggested that it might be helpful if I had a plan. A plan, you say? Well… thinking about having a plan is about as much as I’ve done to-date.

It’s so very easy to find excuses, or even to just let the excuses find me. Too busy. Oh look, I have another yoga class to plan. Feeling pretty exhausted right now. Oh look, the bathroom needs cleaning. That cat of mine needs some grooming…

I don’t need to explain this to anyone who’s ever avoided doing their homework, am I right?

Perhaps this is why my conscious mind needed to be assaulted with intensive pain in order for other parts of my being to get a word in. Or perhaps it was just about timing, and skipping through enough blogs written by others so that tiny fractions of seedlings might hover together closely enough that a more obvious idea could emerge?

And it has. I’m yet to decide if I’ll write under my Svasti pseudonym or my real name or something else entirely. No matter. I’ve got some research to do and some articles to plan and then write, but I suspect I might be onto something. I’ll let you know as and when.

What’s enabled me to plan even this much however, is that I’ve taken the concept of playful exploration (I wrote about it in another post) off the yoga mat and into other areas of my life. Imagine… being playful instead of angsty about my writing? Imagine just trying to get published in a few different places, just giving it a shot to see what happens (and who cares if it actually happens or not)? Imagine putting myself out there in a much more public format than my very private little blog niche here?

Imagine that. Imagine putting some of the oomph and dedication I give my yoga practice into my life as a writer? Ha. Well, imagine that…

[to be continued…]