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Every day, more of what we know falls apart. The dream of America is burning.

Practicing yoga feels like digging an instrument out of myself. It's all very Walking Dead. It's like I'm pulling an instrument from my organs, something I've never seen before and have no idea how to play. I sit on the curb and snatch a rag out of my pocket, and I start out just wiping off all the blood and guts. Eventually, it's clean enough to play. I put my lips to the mouthpiece and blow like Satchmo. I'm playing with no training or sheet music. I'm just trying to see what's there and feel something real. As I play, a stranger rolls up on me. They watch me fuck around for a bit and eventually they shout, "Hey buddy! Where'd you find that instrument?" I look up from my work and think, "Who is this jabroni with no home training that's shouting me down in the street?" I'm a bit peeved, but I try not to show it. I'm still Southern, after all. I decide to keep it cute but brief and so I simply say, "I found it inside myself." Happy to have summoned the debutante within, I go back to playing my instrument. But the stranger is not satisfied. Head cocked, they say, "You found a whole instrument inside yourself?!" I resist rolling my eyes. "Yes," I reply curtly. My Cancer moon doesn't mean to be a bitch, but she's ready to go back to minding her business and she'd be glad to offer a demonstration of how to do so. The stranger looks hopeful, like a puppy on adoption day. "Do you think there's an instrument inside of me?" My Cancer moon sighs. How is she supposed to resist the face of a puppy on adoption day? Shrugging off my shell of introversion, I nod Yes. "Definitely," I tell the stranger. "I bet there's definitely an instrument inside of you." So the stranger sits down next to me, and before long they've pulled out an instrument of their own. Their instrument is totally different from mine and neither of us knows how to play it, but that doesn't deter us from blowing up a storm with only our intuition as training. As time goes by, other strangers approach and pull out their own instruments. Before you k now it, we're an orchestra of novice musicians, playing tunes that none of us know. We're not playing the same songs--we're not even really trying to make music. We're just unlearning who we thought we were supposed to be.

Hating myself is a reflex of getting to know myself. In my self-hate, I see the reflections of those who've hurt me and those who hurt them. I see the necessity of my pain and the futility of avoiding it. Everyone is doing the best they can with the cards life deals them, including everyone who hurts me.