Yogis = Happy always? Naaa.
Last week, I wrote to you from a turned on, life lovin’ place. (I invite you to see The Sex of Yoga and Joy of Everyday Life, if that sort of message would better suit you, today.) Today I write to you from a necrophilic, death magnetizin’ place. Because, after all, the winds of excitement and bliss blow, then the winds change. My state of mind isn’t a static situation. I get happy and sad (Waylon Lewis gets sad, too.). Real sad.
But wait, I’m a yogi. Aren’t I supposed to be happy all of the time? Am I supposed to lie?
Guess what? I’m a human. …not trying to be a god-person. Who are they, anyway? Sometimes people who present themselves as a step up from human are either dreamin’ in themselves or messin’ with you.
Right here in my unsavory emotional brew. Mmmm. I’m takin’ a sniff. Yeah. And a taste. Hmmm.
Well, it’s not exactly how I thought it would be, but it’s good in a “right” kind of way.