I'm moving so fast that I look still. And I'm waiting.
when it's quiet..
run the shore
when the sun kisses the roof tops...
when everyone's nice from the streets to the Starbucks...
It's gonna be a hot one today.
we talk about that all the time in yoga.
I talk about it all the time in yoga.
And here I am...
in the ultimate position to let go and yet...
I think about the trapeze. The hard part isn't the heights, or letting the feet release from the platform to swing in mid air, it's letting go of the bar that releases you to the net below.
What happens next?
Even if you see, it's still hard. It's giving yourself up to something else.
Are you there?
Am I gonna like it?
I can swing like a monkey, tree to tree. I can keep in motion, that's me.
But when it comes to being still with the thoughts that it is now time...
to let go...
all I can do is keep swinging, keep moving.
I know it's almost time.
I always feel like I'm running late.
But I'm always on time.
I do the bare minimum, teach, eat, sleep, work out, work in.
I distract myself with people, emails, phone calls, facebooks and the like and even that is too much. It's all too much sometimes.
But it's only in that time, when I let go of it all, that I can listen to what I really need...
My family has their story while I'm here and I hear from them and I hear the sad and the funny and I get off the phone and I only have the sad, cause I'm alone and there's no funny around me.
There's no funny when you are alone. Ask any commedianne.
My family lines my skin and it's pulsing with connection even though I feel so disconnected.
I talked to my mother the other day. She was crying so hard it vibrated my bluetooth. Then my bluetooth beeped, 'I'm done', it said. Then my phone beeped, 'I'm done,' it said.
But I'm not!!! I said.
I have only a few moments on the phone with my mother for updates from home and even that is interrupted by technology or deadzones that disconnect our conversation.
Now? I just want to be close to you and stupid technology is done. I'm not done.
What can I do?
What can I do.
What am I doing here?
Disconnected to my world here and their world there.
If I can just make my inhales match my exhales, we'll be together.
Right now, all I'm doing is inhaling and there's not much exhale to speak of.
Are you there yoga, it's me, Laurie. I need you now. I need something. I need. I don't know.
When I was home just a few short weeks ago, it was difficult, but I felt myself release because the noise from the rest of my life stopped so I could focus on what's most important. I felt like I was finally connected with it all. No bluetooth, timezone, just life and love, messy, yummy, snotty love. it was easy to integrate.
Love. Sounds cliche. So I'm a freekin' cliche.
Love is all you need to feel whole and let go.
I feel it there, like I've never felt in my life. Family.
I feel it here.
When I teach. Union, yoga.
I feel it here.
When I give, to others, there's nothing like it.
I don't want anything else. Take my money, home, job. Just give me the comfort of love, even if death is hanging out in the living room while I'm making grilled cheese in the kitchen.
There's a giggle in there. And a sigh. Oh my.
Home is here but I'm on my own.
In your 30's it gets a little old, on your own.
We all strive for that connection that makes us feel comfortable enough to let go, feel safe, breathe in and out.
I'm in between. In the air. Hanging on with the net below, shoulders and belly heavy with grief and a few too many kale chips from the night before and years...years and years.
I'm ready to let go, no, not yet. ok, now, if I could just get my fingers make it happen, the rest will follow.
As my dad takes one finger off at a time, I feel a surge within, where work no longer remains priority, but fun, risk, crazy, impulse and devil may care creep up and push my butt. I think of that song by Seal, Crazy, 'Never gonna survive unless we get a little crazy.'
My dad has never been impulsive and crazy, but I feel that his letting go is giving me more strength to live a little deeper, a little 'funner', a little happier, in light of his lack thereof.
I feel that as my dad lets go to the net below, he gives me more life to live in a way that doesn't mean just work, goals, priority and drive.
We are both drivers.
I've known him best while he was at the wheel and I was next to him.
We call mom for the road...what's for dinner?
After the question is answered, it's just the smooth long road ahead and it's him and I and music and windows rolled down and dewey, dirty east coast air and west side highway that pushes full and wide into suburbia and we are free.
Him and me and miles to go. From Boston to NY. NY to Boston. NY to LA and LA to NY. Airport to Airport.
My dad and I have the road and no plans and no words but whatever comes up.
And we're always on time.
Our cuticles are always raw from the stress of traffic.
I will never have good nails because of him.
We are always on the same road.
We speak the same language. Quiet.
We speak the same language. Words, too many and none of them ever say I love you.
But I feel it anyway. Talk about the weather and I know you love me.
Talk about your job and I know you mean to say you miss me.
Talk about cutting the grass and I know you are telling me you wish I would move closer to you and mom.
Talk about gas prices and I know you mean you are proud of me.
We speak the same language, music, and I remember where I came from and how I got here.
I only wanted to make you love me.
And that will never stop.
So I swim the deep dark ocean or heavily clorinated pool to bring me closer to you.
You are the salt, the chemicals that dry my hair and skin.
I hit a ball or write a phrase and you are in the thread, the ink.
I fly away and you are in the air that carries me from coast to coast daring me to live my life.
God damn it. No yoga pose in the freekin' world or breathing technique or meditation can prepare me for what's next.
I try, but it's not freekin' working.
But it's the only thing I can do.
I think if I wanted one more thing, just one more thing, it would be for him to get into the car, ask if my seat belt was buckled and get on the road. I don't care which road it is.
East side, westside, north or south bound, Rolling Stones or Paul McCartney. It's his choice and I'm just along for the ride. I'll always learn your lesson.
This is our last stop and I love that man. He's driven me and my family crazy but he taught me how to drive...
and let go...
kicking, screaming, holding on, swearing, bitching, complaining and f-cking out of his mind crazy.
It's not the most ideal yogi way. But it's the only way for me. And it's the only connection I understand and have in my head while I'm here, alone.
Yoga isn't always beautiful poses and peace.
Yoga is f-cking life and it's messy and miserable and amazing. It's falling and crying. It's not graceful and pretty. It's working it all out so you can work it all in.
The beauty comes from the bliss you find in the misery. The lotus in the f-cking mud.
My dad's right side, the wheel at his hands and the music playing, that's bliss. That's yoga.
And that's all I can hold onto right now, while I'm here, while I teach, alone, until I'm home.
Where love is...
finding the light, red, then green and going...
I'll be home soon.
I don't have any bags.
Just wait for me at the loading zone and we'll go..