I Am Jack’s Raging Bile Duct

I just finished my third yoga class.

Mid way through the class, I entered plank pose. Something horrible starred me in the face. Sitting on my mat: a grotesque piece of debris. What was it? Skin? It looked like skin. It was completely disgusting. Where did it come from? Who did it come from!?

It bothered me. I thought if someone saw it on my mat it would bother them too. Surely it would disgust them. I would disgust them for somehow acquiring this and becoming what appeared to be the rightful owner of this revolting piece of dried flesh. I couldn’t continue to exist with this thing on my mat.

I went to break my pose to brush it away. It was at that moment it clicked. This was my entire life.

For the first time I understood the importance of being in the moment. The importance of not distracting myself.

Removing this putrid debris from my mat.

Adjusting my shirt that’s riding up.

Wiping the dripping sweat from my face.

Making excuses.

Hating my first yoga class.

Hating the instructor’s voice.

Hating the breathing exercises. Feeling bitter when not succeeding in them or even comprehending them.

Feeling bitter that I didn’t understand the proper terminology.

Hating the 60 year old woman in harmony next to me my first yoga class.

Hating everyone. Hating everything. Always.

Finding faults in people. Finding faults. in systems.

Resenting the words people say to me. Resenting the inferences they make. Resenting their actions.

Resenting others’ potential assumptions of my relation to repugnant pieces of skin.

Wanting to eliminate the imperfect.

All of these problems I’ve created as an excuse to avoid achieving success.

I let go of the distractions that comfort me and justify me to keep myself held down.

I held my plank pose as I lifted my leg into the air, raised one arm, pointed my finger tips toward the ceiling, stacked my hips, and twisted into a bridge position.