"In March I'll be rested, caught up and human."
v.29 | Sylvia Plath, marching on, and finding joy on international stages, tiny places, and the page.
Hi hi —
How’s your spirit?
The general vibe I’m sensing is that everyone, myself included, has got the morbs. I’ve found myself in a trance, slipping into goblin mode, and eagerly looking for something solid to grasp to orient myself to the Here. To the Now.
As we yogafolk flow into the March thaw, may we, like Sylvia Plath, be rested, caught up, and human. And in lieu of that, perhaps we can find joy in the mess of it all.
Did Rihanna quiet quit the halftime show? One (male) writer argues yes. And if she did? I am here.for.it. I nominate “mediocrity” as the collective mantra, particularly for all the pregnant people performing on international stages.
“We ecstatically miss her even when she’s there. Even towering high above the literal Super Bowl field, she is holding back; she is chill; she is quite at her leisure.”
— Rob Harvilla, The Ringer
Slime molds are a kind of magic, “entangled in their fluid, nonbinary way of being.” Mysterious creatures, not quite plant, not quite animal, they refuse to conform to our human rules. I’m listening.
“That which seemed dead … had metamorphosed into something unimaginably beautiful.”
— Lucy Jones in Emergence Magazine
Headings and illustrations for Yogafolk are by Leah Tumerman and Chelsey Dyer.