Surprise poetry

I came across this poem while walking in Manchester yesterday. I have walked by here and not noticed it before, but this time I stopped to take a phone call, looked up, and found myself trying to make out the words while paying attention to the person on the line. Such a fitting poem for this city, and also just the sort of surprise art I equate with my visits here.

Moving a little each day

I am not a gym-lover. I am not a runner. I am also not consistent about practicing yoga, even though I love it.

But I know this about myself: If I find a way to be even slightly active during the day, I will be happier for it.

And so I have been working on that. I have done 20-minute yoga classes, because sometimes I have to ignore my judgy, perfectionist brain telling me I really should practice for an hour and be realistic about what’s going to happen. I tried a Zumba class because 45 minutes of feeling silly was absolutely worth the happy-exhausted feeling I ended with. I even joined a gym because knowing that my husband also plans to go will at least get me out of the house and moving a couple times a week.

And today? Today I did none of those things. Today I opted to walk the 20 minutes between my dentist’s office and a coffee shop, and that was most of my activity for the day. And it counted — my brain and my body tell me it was worth it.