My dreams have been so realistic I am confusing them with reality. My reality, my waking, hours have been spent with Satan in Moscow in the depths of the novel 'The Master and Margarita'. All the while my hormones are raging and I try to keep a lid on what's bubbling away inside. Why can't hormones make me happy, peaceful, kind and patient?
Yoga practice does ease the pressure. But it is the practice off the mat that I'm working on. To smile when I don't feel like it, and to be patient when I'm in a rush. To nurture calmness in a storm. Accept all as it is.