Did COVID resurrect my inner chill bitch?
Minding my business, doing YouTube yoga, and writing a gift guide (found here)
I can’t just take a bath these days. The tub must be scrubbed clean and contain two cups of Dr. Teal’s Epsom salts and a few flicks of an essential oil blend called Chill Pill (sweet orange, lavender, patchouli, peppermint, sweet basil, and Roman chamomile). While the water runs, I douse the room in this shit called Chakra Spray—a delicate potion of distilled water, witch hazel, and a specific essential oil to “balance each Chakra,” though, I cannot pretend to know what that means, or whether it’s crafted by actual Hindus. I take a few deep breaths as the incense burning on the sink grooves and swirls through a thick haze of steam. On kinder days, I’ll catch the upper fifth of my body in the mirror and give it a little nod as to say, “pleasure doing business with you.”
The only nourishment I respond to lately is zen. I’ve never lacked for potential to become a functional, low-profile hippie; having my routine rocked for nine months has forced me to expedite the process. Now, my days feel compromised if I haven’t engaged in some vaguely spiritual act(s) of self-care, an elaborate bath being one.
I’ve been doing yoga. I use the word “doing” loosely, as it’s been 10-15 minute practices from a YouTube channel called sarahbethyoga on my Kelly green Amazon Essentials mat while my unused muscles quiver in basic poses; but nonetheless, I’m showing up for myself and it feels surprisingly good. I am generally outspoken about the fact that I am more of a sprinter than a yogi, but I’ve slowed my runs down to a conversational pace and started doing yoga before or after each run to center myself and help with mobility. I catch myself smiling under my mask when I’m not thinking about my time or mileage, and yoga naturally flows with that type of low intensity cardio. Sometimes Andrew practices with me, like the other day when I had to sprint to the toilet during Savasana, fully obliterating our meditative moment. Baby steps.
At the end of August, I started a “book club” on Instagram that can be tracked by the hashtag #bbmbooks. We (probably just me, but this is an optimistic post, so for consistency’s sake) are on our 9th book in 14 weeks (Tropic of Cancer required small sobriety breaks… IYKYK). Though I could afford to be better about it, reading is the fulcrum of my zen. I have to be immersed in a book to approach other activities with the sense of peace and presence that reading requires. Books also maintain my capacity for surprise. If it weren’t for books, I don’t think anything could surprise me anymore, so I read to avoid shriveling into an old, chain-smoking, cynical nonna. Collecting new language and ideas while keeping my attention span intact helps, too.
Tea has weaseled its way into daily beverage rotation. If you read my joint piece with Andrew, you may recall that tea drinkers are among the people I inherently trust. Tea drinkers have always known something I don’t and on that premise alone, I’ve silently longed to be one. I still cannot function without my morning americano—I actually tried going a day without caffeine recently and started sobbing thinking I had COVID because I got a pounding headache and was impossibly tired. Then I drank a black tea and stopped Googling rapid testing sites. But yeah, I’ve been on some honey vanilla chamomile, lemon ginger, green tea kick feeling like Deepak Chopra in the club.
I read something on Facebook about how “making art used to be the norm, and now it’s the exception,” or however a viral quote graphic might be worded. And we’re all pathetic enough to want to be the exception at times. What does one’s inner chill bitch do for true psychological liberation but make art? My response to a fit of panic the other day was to stumble outside into the frigid air to shoot film and write feverishly in a notebook. I left my phone at home and crept around the neighborhood like a wide-eyed tourist, noting every sight and sensation. Even my thoughts have been more abstract and placid, which is diesel fuel to the artist brain. The notes on my phone are stacked with poetic introspection like, “Do you think it’s a coincidence that our veins are blue and green like mother earth herself, tiny globes stretched like string lights between our knuckles?” Idk Dia. Idk.
Embracing my inner bohemian feels like an inevitability that’s been brewing for years, like the kombucha I’ll undoubtedly dabble in soon enough. This inclination toward the slow and devotional is just the kind of truth unearthed by too much time at home. And while I look forward to live music and unmasked laughter and I-almost-said-hugs-but-goddamnit-I’m-not-a-hugger, I hope this side of me sticks around for the long haul.
CHILL BITCH STARTER KIT/GIFT GUIDE:
Chakra Spray, $20 Ritual Shoppe
Buttery soft, flexible leggings that make your ass look great, $82 Outdoor Voices (get 20% off your first purchase of $100+ through the end of 2020 with the code DOER-DIA)
Incense - it’s like, $5 for 30 sticks at Wonderland at 20th & Walnut. I much prefer incense to candles (or lit in conjunction) for stronger, lingering scents and a nice vibe.
Notebook with dots instead of lines - a trick from my writer friend Jake that’s helped with my creative process immensely, $16 Omoi Zakka Shop
Film camera - these can go for under $100. I recommend calling Webb Cam in Philly for the excellent service and guidance on getting started.
Coffee with a cause made by cool guys in Philly, $16 Wishful Roasting
A paid annual subscription to this wicked newsletter for a limited time price of $30!!!