Somebody That I Used to Know

I'm lying on the yoga mat, flat on my back, eyes closed, and my mind, bored, wanders over and starts playing with the river of words that seem to be constantly flowing through my head. Apparently it's interested in writing an essay about how going to a Catholic church with Katie has inoculated me, somehow, against my more fanatical impulses.  It lists all of the drugs I've done, the gurus I've followed, the books (holy and profane) I've read, the meditations and fasts I've inflicted upon myself, the religions, both orthodox and un-, I've visited upon my soul with holy dread, the chants chanted and the beads counted and the prayers intoned over how many years, only to have them all amount, at least right now, to "something I used to do."

I wrestle my truant mind to the ground and back on to what we're doing, i.e. yoga, not without a certain regret, as some of the sentences were pretty good.