so interior are really only the play of prakriti.
Thoughts, emotions and ahamkara itself stop at the
gate of the Inner Self which abides in the
inner chamber of the heart — always at peace —
whatever forces of prakriti may storm outside.
– Eknath Easwaren
Ever since I began reading for my yoga teacher training last January, I have found such sustenance there — true soul nourishment that has rooted me ever more deeply into this life, into this journey.*
Never more true than in this moment as I type to you and out my window I look up at gray skies, down on streets edged with snow. First Friday of April be damned — the Winter That Was is not about to go gently into that good night. Hence the photo above as it seems nearly impossible for me to think a month from now the streets could look like that.
Aren’t you glad I came in to share with you? Well, much as I would like to spare you the dredges of my empty lunch bucket, I am showing up because I’ve gotten some emails and messages asking where I am at. Oh, people. If my heart weren’t a frozen block of ice, your care and concern would surely warm it.
Yes. I am definitely in that icky sticky transition place. And, let’s be honest. This time of year always cuts me off at the knees.
Yes, I see snowdrops peeking through dead leaves. Yes, I see the tips of daffodils and tulips poking up in fat bunches despite the rough, brown ground. No, they do not light a fire in my heart.
My camera sits cold in my pocket; inspiration has abandoned me.
Which is not to say life in all its wonder and glory isn’t going on around me. It surely is.
It’s just that my spirit animal right now is the rusted and cracked old radiator leaning next to my front porch where it has been lo these many weeks waiting for the junk man to come by and pick it up.
I honestly didn’t even know how low my energies had dropped until Sunday morning when I arrived in Florida for Tracey‘s wedding and face planted on the bed.
For the next three hours, I slept the sleep of the dead. When I woke up — soft balmy air and palm trees outside my window — I had a bit of clarity drop in.
Damn, February. You were fucking relentless. And March? I’m not even talking to you. Seriously.
If I hadn’t gotten away, gotten some perspective, I likely would not have even registered all that we lived through up here in America’s next Top Tundra. Once I saw it, waves of exhaustion crashed over me and Sunday was spent solely in the kitchen and bed. Mostly in bed. With crackers and seltzer as if I was recuperating from the flu. Crazy town.
Oh frabjous day – and blessings to the power of rest, crackers and fizzy water – by Monday, I was feeling a million times better and ready to wear sunglasses and cruise up to Winter Park with the bride-to-be for some girl time and pre-wedding magic.
Tracey and I have been friends since the early days of bluepoppy when she would leave such sweet and supportive comments. We finally met in person at the first Squam in September 2008 and in the most perfect, serendipitous, wild magic ways – she has always shown up as my angel just when I needed her most.
So it was with the greatest honor imaginable that I flew down to be part of her intimate, family only wedding in an exquisite 100-year old chapel bordered by a small lake and surrounded by ancient oaks adorned with Spanish moss.
I got home Tuesday at midnight and woke up Wednesday to the first day of allegedly the cruelest month, but we all know who rightly belongs to that moniker, don’t we now February?
Now it’s Friday and I have much to do before the weekend arrives so I will wrap up with this: it’s all good.
Om Tat Sat
Truly. How could I possibly savor the ease of days rich with sunlight, dancing dust motes and dogs sleeping with deep satisfaction after a fat, long walk through the woods if I never had the hard, challenging, stressful days to live through?
Or as Thich Nhat Hanh writes in No Mud, No Lotus,
We can navigate them more skillfully
when we don’t waste time and energy shooting
ourselves with a second arrow–such as dwelling
on how much greener the grass in our
neighbor’s yard looks, compared to ours.
Hello mud! Hello dead leaves, broken branches and ever-present rusty radiator in my own damn yard! Thank you for being your fullest and best selves. Thank you for letting me be my own dead, boring, broken, muddy and altogether shambling between seasons self.
Let the rains begin!
*Of course, no surprise I have to work fairly consistently to wave off the voice that is disappointed in how slow I am in finding my way, that caws at me “how did it take you so long to get here?”