Natasha Regehr

Tag: Natasha Regehr (Page 9 of 9)

2014 Gratitude List

You may have noticed a funny little game going around on Facebook, whereby people nominate each other to share a few things for which they are thankful.  The challenge is to “post three things you’re grateful for each day for seven days.”

I say, PSHAW.  That’s no challenge at all.  I’ve done that, week after week, year after year, since 2007, without repeating anything.*

It gets a little tricky to do that for seven years running, so I’ll modify the challenge for all of you novices out there:  Can you muster up 365 consecutive days of gratitude, and post your list next Thanksgiving?

I did! So here, without further ado, is my (minimally censored) 2014 Gratitude List:

The sun came out and warmed me up

I got an extra hour outside

I made the soup yesterday

Gloria is okay

I made it to the end of this emotionally unsavoury day

And tomorrow will be different

My back yard at night, with stars and wisps of clouds. It gives me cause for deep breaths and solace.

Children who stay home to vomit… Continue reading

Yoga Prose II: A Hoop-Dee-Doo!

A revealing exposé of my secret grad school romance with a hoop:

I am a yoga experimentalist. Or perhaps merely the subject of a greater mega-yoga conspiracy, designed explicitly to stretch my tendons and my temperament in various hypothetically-possible ways. It’s okay. You needn’t worry. Yoga and I have a history.

It began at a weekend synchronized swimming meet in the late eighties, when, as a virgin yoga-attemptee, I worried that I might be doing something dangerously evil by lying on my back and thinking about my breathing when I should have been in church. My spirit emerged intact, however, until my next wobbly attempt, a decade and a half later, in the much safer environs of my local gym. I’ve tried power yoga, yoga fit, hatha yoga, and, in a more audacious experiment, Tai Chi (which I realize is not yoga at all, but I include to convince you of the scope of my yoga-quest). I like to think I have become rather good at it. I can twist myself in all sorts of unprecedented directions. I am beginning to think that Yoga and I are becoming too familiar with each other.

It was with a sort of giddy delight, therefore, that I discovered Hoop Yoga. “What can it be?” I wondered. “What does one do?” I rubbed my palms together in greedy anticipation. There’s nothing I like better than an adventure.

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Introductions: Pyjama Prose

I am a morning writer.  I like to migrate directly from my bed to my couch, pyjama-clad, to dump my morning thoughts into my mac.

There’s something fluid about a morning mind.  It’s just groggy enough to be unconcerned about the inner naysayer.  It hasn’t entirely separated the events of the night from the events of the day.  Dreams are still a little buoyant.  Words are still a little wiggly, dancing coyly as they wait to be reined in.  It’s a game, this morning prose, an exercise in letting go and urging on.

It’s a shame, then, that most mornings I stumble hazily through my morning routine of eating, washing, and dressing for a day of mundane writerlessness.  I have this outside life, you see, that requires me to deposit myself at specific locations at predetermined times, despite my unwillingness to materialize in public before noon.  Jobs and gym classes are interferences, staving away the freshness of the day and grounding me in socially acceptable self-censorship.  By evening, the words have often wiggled away.

Unless…

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