ANOTHER DAY

by F. Solomon

I lie on my back doing figure eights with my table topped legs--all Pilatesese to me. Table top means legs up in the air parallel to the ceiling and then the circles, while sucking in my stomach and holding my buttocks tight. Honestly there are too many things to do with my body at once, but I finished the Pilates class and followed it with a yoga class. My instructor called me a warrior; I was not sure about that. I did my best and was not any worse for the wear after the class. She told me that it did not matter if I could do all the poses perfectly, just that I did my best and kept at it. To do it even when I was not in the mood to do it and that I would get better.

Even Pilates has become easier than writing for me. It is not that I have a block, or maybe that is it--I have not had a block of time to write since the beginning of the year. I know I am supposed to write regularly, but I have not. I almost did on the train on the way to Pilates, but the only thing I did was go to Pilates.

Then the epiphany, very Scarlett O'Haraesque. The thing that propelled me to Pilates was the realization that I did not have to be perfect, that as long as I did my best that that would be enough. I did not write yesterday, or the day before or maybe not even tomorrow--which after this post would be very sad and uninspired--but tomorrow remains another day. Beating myself up is not necessary; it does not feel good and it makes it seem as if the thing that I do and love the most in the world is something that should be a source of shame for me. Pilates, writing, anything that is intended to be done regularly, there will be times that I fall off. I just have to get back on with a force. Grab my curtain and make a dress or move my body or put words to pen or the screen, as saucy as that.

Tomorrow really is another day, another shot, another opportunity.