I didn't always feel this way, but if there's one thing I believe with growing certainty (well at least in my sphere of thought) is that we are all old souls.  I believe our souls are evident...constantly on some plain of existence. That we preside continuously on different levels of consciousness. Logic...or should I rather say Science dictates that energy can never dissipate. What are we, if we are not but intricate networks of charged vibrations, frequency and energy operating on a preternatural timetable? The point?

Well, my point is; that the point is (=)).....to discover who we are, as we are. As whatever role (child, wife, friend, adversary, teacher, partner); in whatever century, age, era; as whatever being- we have a Learning Journey ahead. And part of that learning journey is to find  comfort in those stolen moment of absolute joy, when the most minute of revelations set in...of who we are, of who we were or will be and of what we hope- like shared secrets nesting serenely between close friends.

The hardest part is trying to constantly remind myself  that that's my point. Preach? No, sir. But testify I will...TESTIFY, TESTIFY!!! So, shoo my dear, how I've fallen off the wagon! Problems people...I'm working on them!

So, although I'm back to courting cancer after a phe-fucking-nominal fifteen months (what can I say, Me and the Marlboro Man have a thing going on), the Mr. Delivery guy has seen my face more than my yoga instructor over the past month  and the inconsequential drivel of randoms has hit back with such vengance and furious anger like a home-grown strain of extremely drug resistant TB....I remain resolute.

I hate resolutions....I hate New Years resolutions, so much so.....it's February (well, almost March).....my point exactly.

But goals, alas, need to be set. In other words...I need a carrot...dangling ever so slightly out of my reach. Besides, I'm honest enough to admit that I function better knowing there's a gold star/ reward/ Noddy badge/ glittery crown/ cookies/ a garden of gange at the end of my rainbow. So, in keeping with my fervent and obsessive compulsion to, well, obsessively compile...lists, here we go. And, again, ladies and gentlemen...in no particular order (I just can't handle my own deadlines and expectations...and with it my own thunderously resounding guilt)...here we go, again:

• Maybe get a scooter, the obligatory license and maybe a few lessons.<PAUSE> Did you hear that? No? Sorry I couldn't hear anything over the sound of  myself having a stroke.So, how about I aim for something less mechanical...a bicycle...#FLASHBACK# ...wait # RACE CARD#. I must be the only person who associates a childhood bicycle accident with Apartheid. I could  never honestly tell you that I've felt oppressed or hard done by by an almost prehistoric government, although I am completely a consequence of the emerging society in which it played at minimum the preface and introductory chapters to my modern day. Nonetheless, this is the only experience that still holds up as clear as day for me and could explain my aversion to bicycles and maybe, church. I was five travelling with my dad on a bicycle on a busy road, got knocked down by fault of a really old-school Oom,who told my dad to "Hou his bek" and shoved a ten rand note in his hand. I was in tears, but this comes as no suprise; I am still known to this day to exhibit a flair for the theatrics. My dad crossed the road to a church just across the way, and the caretaker wouldn't let us use the bathrooms to wash the blood of my legs and arm....(sigh).....garden tap. OMG!!!! Not, Ayoba...goddamnit- I was freaking adorable- how can you turn that down? Anyhoo...now that I've relived that...unnecessarily, I recant the suggestion of bicycle. Nay. Scooter...and will just rock my two trusty legs and remain irreverant of any government. 

• And my two trusty legs will hopefully (?) definitely Tuladandasana my ass into a yoga retreat and teacher's course.

• I am going on a looooooooong road trip.....I am dragging Moth. No, of course we are not walking. Transcendent to that degree, I am most definitely not. But, grateful nonetheless that I have a husband whose delusions I do not have to accommodate as gravely as he does mine....and it totally doesn't hurt that has no qualms with automotive vehicles!

• Master the hula-hoop. You laugh....but really, you have no idea just how scary it is that I'm this close.

• And with that said, maybe honestly consider joining a squircus. Honestly. And when I'm really honest about joining...on that fateful day I won't call it a squircus.

• Find a willing Hari Krishna, go Debra Patta on his ass and give him the third degree. If he completes a set of innumerable and anguishingly insurmountable list of questions/ scenarios/ role play/ tests of agility, then maybe, just maybe settle diligently on this life philosophy.

• Go to the dentist.

• Figure out how to come back as a cat in my next life.

• Not make life changing decisions when I'm angry.

• Not make promises when I'm happy.

• Quit my job.

• Rediscover the grindstone...(for a limited time only...then discover owning a farm).

• Find a track, get back on it....and don't look back.

• And lastly....stop being so gawddamn hard on myself...these goals will be accomplished- whether in this life or the next! But also hopefully sometime this year....there we go again!

In a typically Back to the Future-esque setting what would you do if the De Lorean we to pull up next to you, open its doors and welcome you into the manic embrace of Prof...

Without even batting an eyelid, I'd jump into that ride and turn the dial back to the eighties, just so that I could have a few words with the little miss me. If you're thinking along the lines of prophetic revelations, you're sorely mistaken... I'd simply say, "My girl- grab a mat and channel pretzel because a yo-yoga-ing you will go".
I've recently restarted my yoga practice with the same ferverent conviction as the local doomsday preacher that lurks around the train station. My practice began a few years back at an actual Ashram, located deep in the mystique of the freaking Southern Suburbs in Cape Town (I kid you not). Since then I've bounced around and downward dogged myself from pillar to post until I finally settled on  a gem of a studio which I know call home. It's one of the few heated studio's in Cape Town and although its uber- chic and fresh, the instructors are totally warm and personable.

I'm not overly anal about my weight, well... not more than anything else I suppose. Thankfully the good old family tree smiled on me with good fortune (I'm what you may describe as one size up from Polly Pocket) and savage humour (in grade school my Christmas wish would be to start the new school year a whole three centimeters taller and everyone would recognise). RECOGNISE YOU LUCKY TALL FREAKS...but I've made peace with the height thing now-clearly!

But alas, there comes a time when you get older. When slowly the yeast lying dormant in yor hips and thighs suddenly begins to rise. And before you know it, you have a freshly baked muffin top-boo! I like to call myself sports disabled (insert cough) challenged, but that just it! Yoga isn't a sport. Some call it a lifestyle, some call it a holistic  fitness routine, others follow it like a religion. But, simply put, its anything you make your practice out to be- its can be as simple as an hour you have to yourself everyday...and it totally doesn't hurt that it melts off any unwanted pudge, keeps you strong and somehow always offers some mental peace.
Its that exact mental peace that I'm on search for tonight. After my weekend I need to purge my sins and get my bearings in gear. Spending a crazy weekend with the Devil's neighbour in Paarl can be quite taxing on the body...especially if it involves wrestling bears and administrating the Heimlich Maneuverer on a tortoise named Wally. Poor Wally- where in the world are you? Probably with Lemmywinks... The locals joke and kid that once you're in Paarl, you stay in Paarl. Others repeat the urban legend that the mountain range including Paarl Rock has some strange vibes in the granite and that it causes magnetic disturbances in your brain patterns if you're exposed to it for long periods of time. Ahem! After the weekend I had, this sounds totally plausible to me.

So, much like the magnetic pull of the famed Paarl Rock, find your nearest bikram yoga studio, get your ass into that hot room with sexy, sticky strangers and just flow. Find yourself, find your bearings and find the hot bod lurking beneath the muffin tray! Guaranteed, you'll be comming back for more!