Que sera sera

It came to me in a dream. As I drifted through the town where I grew up, having drinks with my old boss and friend from school who moved homes and opened a shop, discussing what I should do with the rest of my life, it hit me. Yoga.

I’ve been doing it for fifteen years. What’s wrong with sticking up some notices, telling people to come along and pay a donation to join in with a routine that’s kept me from sagging, loosened my tense shoulders and flattened my uterus after two big babies, and given me a moment of calm sanity every day for years? It’s worth a go, in any case, since I’ll be doing it anyway. I can offer it after the morning school run, mothers of small children can just bring them along, all weather but rain.

I have no shame. Christ, I worked as a childminder for two years when Tom lost his job in the financial crisis and the babies were small so I could keep our heads above water and get paid for staying at home; they were the toughest years of my life.

In my panic to find paid employment, I’ve asked around, hit up old faces I’ve worked for before, dropped into various establishments asked around the village where I’m friendly enough with the owners; at the deli, the cafe, and the pub. I’ve done all these jobs before, and it makes sense to keep myself afloat until I find “a proper job.” But though people are being positive about offering me work, it’s evening and weekends, and I’m not sure, even in desperation I can go back to that, with kids. But yoga in the park makes proper sense, if people come and don’t hurt themselves. I won’t even force a proper charge, because I’m not qualified. I’ll suggest a donation instead. It almost feels like good karma, to help people stay in shape, get focused and meet up after getting their kids to school, like a community endeavour that helps break down the barriers we all put up.

I’ve run my own business before and it was fine. Hard work, but I didn’t mind touting for business among friends and acquaintances to get things going. And it’s better than working for someone else. I’m a free spirit in more ways than one, so perhaps it’s time to embrace that instead of trying to shoehorn myself into another organisation where I’ll probably end up feeling like a bad fit.

In the dream, I ran from shop to shop, putting up notices, with a view to doing it in the garden of my old house. But in real life, what’s to stop me doing it in the park? Victoria Park is not unlike Hungerford, where I used to live, with its villagey street, boutiquey shops and village notice board, except it’s plonked in the middle of inner-city Crackney. There’s nothing to stop me putting up a few notices and see what happens. In the mean time, it will certainly give me something to do, feel good (?) about myself and hopefully earn a crust while I’m about it. It doesn’t feel like such a bad idea after all. Although , whether or not I’ve still got the confidence to stand up in front of strangers and tell them what to do is yet to be tested after two years of sitting by myself in front of a computer screen.

In any case, today, I find out my fate. I’ve been up since the crack of dawn, anxious, with a fluttery stomach and loose bowels; the echoey sensation of too many thoughts too quick and not enough sleep. Que sera sera, as the song goes. We will see what will be.