One of our first poses in last Yoga class was plow. Imagine the old “bicycle” exercise except that your feet are not in the air, but on the floor behind your head. Yep. You have to be careful in this pose or you can seriously hurt a number of places on your body—your neck, most particularly. As I was reaching to get my toes to the floor and realizing it wasn’t going to happen last night, my Yoga teacher said, “It doesn’t matter if you get there tonight or in your next lifetime. What matters is the practice, the process. You simply can’t muscle your way into this.” Once again, I am struck by how often what comes down in Yoga class is a reflection of my life. For the past few days, I’ve been trying to muscle my writing—because my daughters are on summer break starting next week. For the most part this muscling business works for me. I give myself early deadlines so that if anything goes wrong further into the process, I have plenty of time and space. I wanted to have SCRAPBOOK OF SHADOWS to my editor this week. (When is it due? February 2012. Crazy, I know.) My self-imposed deadline is just not going to be met this time. And yesterday I realized I’m okay with that. I’m done muscling my way into anything, especially my writing. The process, right now, is so clearly calling for distance. I’m going to use it.