Downward Facing Writer

The human body is a wonderful magical machine. Unfortunately, I didn’t start to really appreciate just how functional and special my body was until I had already grown out of the most extraordinary phase of childhood.

I used to pump the swing to its highest point before jumping off. My knees broke my fall and picked up wood chips, clinging to my bare skin. I’d brush them off. Laughing. I used to run until I fell down. I used to twirl until I was sick. I used to hang by my feet. Go down the slide upside down and backwards. I used to leap and prance and skip. I used to pretend to limp. I stood on one leg and closed my eyes and counted to one hundred. My body was alive. The limit of my play was exhaustion. I didn’t hold back my energy; I spent every last jolt. 

But as I grew up, my body got costlier to move. School trained me for jobs that didn’t involve swinging or running or twirling. Instead, I sat. 

Here I sit. Only my fingers experience the dance of motion. 

My back hunches. My neck tightens. My shoulders atrophy. My ideas shrivel and die on the vine. 

It occurred to me in yoga class recently that this activity was my new recess. I can’t be trusted to use my body to its fullest potential anymore unless it’s structured as fitness. The yogi even tells us when to breathe. My favorite pose is literally called Happy Baby.

I don’t have any evidence that yoga helps me write better. But if you’ve gotten into a rut, give it a try. Maybe an idea will shake loose while you’re upside down. At the very least you won’t be as distracted by your tight neck.

This is not sponsored content for yoga—move your body in the way that works best for you. Run. Box. Dance. Skip. Swing. Jump rope. Moving for creativity does not look very different than regular old gym.