If Finian was a domestic appliance, he'd be a tumble dryer set permanently at warp speed. His internal engines generate enough heat and speed to fire up a small nation.
It's a sad fact that we don't make optimal use of his exertions. In a weird kind of inverse ratio, the more he bounces, the more worn out I become.
I get tired watching him.
Mostly he directs his energy into pacing, making sure all the windows are closed, pacing, checking that there are no empty plug sockets, pacing, switching off all the lights, pacing, ensuring that various screens are projecting the required cartoons, pacing, making sure the dehumidifier is always fucking on, and more pacing.
The man likes to pace.
The last six months have been especially anxiety-provoking for him. Movement is regulating for him, and lots of walks help to steer him between the ditches. I don't want to shit all over walking, but if I see another lake, duck or forest trail I might eat my own legs.
So I started doing yoga with him.
It was one of those ideas so obvious that I can't believe I didn't think of it before.
I go to yoga classes as often as I can, and Finian did lots of it when he was at school, so we're both pretty familiar with it.
We set up a mat in the hallway, or just pause for a few beats wherever we are, and do 10 rounds of 'cactus arms' breathing. I was expecting resistance from him, but he loves it. In just a few minutes, his strung-out jets get cooled a little, while reinforcing an effective self-regulation skill.
It's great that you don't have to live on an ashram in Tamil Nadu, or be fit, or even be especially bendy to do yoga. The kitchen floor is grand.
Try yoga, you crazy kids. All the cool cats are doing it.
No comments:
Post a Comment