Where I’m Calling From: 02
Stimulants
Odilon Redon on quiet: “[Bordeaux] was at that time a rather wild and deserted place, and has since changed; I am talking about what was. In those days one traveled by stagecoach and even by ox-cart, monotonous locomotion, peaceful, numbingly slow. But spirit free, eyes alert, we could lie down at full length on the bench of the carriage and see nothing but the landscape rolling by, slowly, deliciously, scarcely moving, in a kind of state of contemplation.”
I have been feeling overstimulated lately. Buzzy. Fizzy.
Sunday night, I was taking a hot yoga class. We’re not supposed to say “Bikram-style” anymore, though that’s what it was called when I started taking these classes. For those of you who blissfully slept through this trend: you practice the same 26 postures, flanked by two breathing exercises, one at the start and one at the end of the 90-minute class. The room is heated to 104 degrees with a 40 percent humidity level to mimic the climate in India. Nowadays, you’ll see it advertised as “26+2” class, referring to the postures and breathing exercises.
I don’t think people should really be practicing hot yoga, and feel a bit like a hypocrite when I tell people I do. The person who popularized the 26+2 sequence is a greedy, bizarre predator (I’ll let you do the research on that yourself). And perhaps, more urgently, practicing in a hot, humid room tricks your body into thinking it is much more flexible than it really is. Your muscles warm up, your thinking gets fuzzy, and you slip into and out of strange shapes with a drunken ease.
Class ended, and lying on the floor in the dark, I became aware of this stimulation. I could feel it rising off my body like steam. For ninety minutes, I did nothing other than focus on the plain fact of my foot in my hand. In the heat, the stifling humidity, I could only hold onto one thought at a time. I could process one reality.
The class is monotonous and numbingly slow. Instructions are specific, and often the script is the same, from one teacher to another. I like this. To me, it’s peaceful in its routine. I’ve practiced 26+2 in different studios, different states, and those classes always have a signature kind of seriousness to them. People lock in in those rooms. They’re ready to exorcise something. I did, anyhow, without my own knowing. I was trying to sweat that stimulation out.
In graduate school, I spent my winters in the tub, reading. That’s a habit from childhood that I happily maintained. In Ukraine, I went first, before my mom, and was always using up too much of the hot water. In our Brooklyn apartment, the supply was endless, and I took baths nightly. My landlord in Ann Arbor, where I lived during grad school, was patient with me, since I was once again the hot water hog. But I remember those frigid winter months clearly even now, four years later. I remember what I was reading, how I was editing story pages for workshop submission. I remember the different smelly oils I rotated through, and trying (and failing) to enjoy weed now that it was legal where I was living. I remember the weak, blue-tinged winter light filtering through my bathroom window when I took afternoon baths, and the steam escaping when I would crack the window open. I held onto these memories so vividly, I think, because I had the open space in my brain to store them.
Now, there is less time for baths. For me, at least. Theo, my baby, has it pretty good. An elaborate bath ritual has already been established for him; a tiny tub was procured the first week he was home. Oils and moisturizers of varying strengths, plush little towels, robes, and goat-hair brushes. When he emerges from the bathroom those evenings, his gaze is soft and his lids are droopy. He’s wearing the same look of contentment I sometimes wear, except I had to spend 90 minutes sweating in a room with strangers for it. He just had to float in chamomile-scented water, supported by his father’s arms.
I’m not offering anything particularly profound, just sharing an experience I hear about frequently now: feeling overstimulated makes writing difficult, particularly so when you’re not yet aware that you’re experiencing that overstimulation. *Why am I feeling so flustered? Why can’t I make use of the little time I have? Why is it difficult to follow the thread of my thoughts?*
Heat helps me. Recognition, too. Finally, a willingness to do something other than remain buried under the wave of stimulation.
A quick announcement for those of you in NYC: I’m teaching a five-week course on diary reading and note-taking. It will be very fun! Please sign up, and reach out if you have questions.
Thanks for reading.
Dasha