Still

By Erin Deborah Waks

My life is normally characterised by a restlessness that can only be appeased by movement. Every time I reach a state of boredom, of meaninglessness, my instinct is to pack my bags and move countries. It’s not a running away, it’s more of a running towards - towards a new language, a new experience, a new lifestyle, new meaning. I guess a childhood marked by crossing oceans has left me far too comfortable with the challenges of starting over.

In that movement, I’m often searching for myself. I do it even within a city. At the first sign of boredom, I take up a new hobby, learn a new skill, overload my schedule and plan for weeks ahead so I don’t have to sit in that uncomfortable silence. It usually coincides with a flurry of writing.

I’ve tried yoga more times than I can count, adding it to my list of resolutions each year on the 31st December. And each year, I go, promising myself that I’ll commit. And each time, I’m faced with an uncomfortable boredom in my practice, my inner restlessness compounded to be tenfold. It’s like in that silent studio, breathing with my body, I’m being further forced to confront the things about which I’m unhappy. Each time, I come home feeling more agitated. The enforced feeling of calm has an opposite effect on me, leaving me less serene and more irritated. I sometimes have to go for a run afterwards, just to eradicate the frustration I feel.

Running away from a city is the solution my mind feels is most apt; surely my surroundings are the reason I feel unfulfilled. In reality, it’s the discomfort within my own skin that leaves me so paralysed with boredom.

I spent the last year figuring things out. Who I am. Who I want to be. And marrying those things together. Figuring out how to handle that anxiety, that restlessness, that uncontained energy.

This year I tried yoga again. Hot yoga, to be precise. And I found, in the almost claustrophobic heat of the studio, an ability to be present. I understood what all those instructors meant when they said to connect your breath to your movement. It became essential to my sanity, and London became a place from which, for once, I didn’t want to run. In yoga I found connection with my body, just as it is. Not just in the studio, though. With the shift came other changes.

In gentle movement and loving touch, I found a peace in my own skin, my stretch marks and the softer parts of me comprised. In quiet rituals and sleepy mornings, I found calm. In words, I found meaning, a refuge from turmoil and discomfort.

And for the first time in my life, I realised I want to stand still for a while.