I’m back in Manila. A memory of the cold North European summer lingers on my pale skin, chafed by the winds of the Baltic sea and inconsistent lotion application. I haven’t been gone long (a mere ten days), but the feel of our tropic dampness is stark.
It’s rainy, I’m extra-sweaty from a vinyasa class, and I somehow decide that the conditions are ripe for vegetating in a coffee shop to create this space.
Certainly it isn’t the weather prompting a spew of constipated thoughts. Neither is it the unusual amount of free time (afforded by jetlag-extended vacation leave), nor the mental nudge of an energetic yoga class.
This blog is just way overdue.
My yoga practice has lately been slipping (off my imaginary charts). I realize that my attempt at meditation, at the moment, is not enough to unload my thoughts. And the brain is very, very pregnant. More on that in the days to come.
So here I am, confronting my fear of the internet, writing in a journal, the idea of which I used to scoff at but secretly fantasize about ever since I encountered the worldwide web.
Bent over a keyboard and sketchpad, armed with eyeglasses I’ve refused to wear since my abrupt career change, and minus the academic staple cigarette and quadruple-shot espresso, I feel right at home.