Last week I walked slowly around a field filled with cherry trees, wandering from place to place in no particular pattern until I found the spot that felt right to stop and be. As I moved back and forth from one side of the field to the other, my lower back in a bit of pain, I wondered gently why I couldn’t settle into one place. Even though physically I wanted to stop and could stop “right here” I didn’t. Until I was guided to the place where sitting down on the ground felt right.

As I sat I had a flash of a memory appear. When I was in Damanhur earlier this year I walked through the energetic stone circuits. The first one I walked was quite large – as I stood at the entrance in the center of the circuit in front of me I saw to my left the painted yellow, blue and red stones were laid out in lines and to my right in a circle.

I had surgery on my left leg two weeks prior to traveling and for a while couldn’t walk at all. My stitches were still in and I could walk with a cane in hand to try to keep some stability even though each step was difficult and slightly painful. At first I thought I couldn’t do it at all and then I decided I could and because of my condition I wanted to be mindful of the way I went through the circuit. I wanted to take as few steps as possible. That way my leg wouldn’t be in as much pain and I could still receive the benefits of the circuit.

I started out on the path and was drawn towards the circle. Winding around in spirals as I stepped with care I tried to look at the patterns of the stones so I could figure out the best route for me – the one where I wouldn’t have to walk as much and could rest my leg. I wanted to rest in the center of the circle where there were fewer stones and a place to lay down.

Every time I became tired from the exertion it took I paused and aggressively recalculated my route. How can I get there without too many steps? I looked at the stones and how they were laid out, chose what was obviously the most direct path that would let me take care of myself with the least amount of effort expended. All of my attention was on my leg and figuring it out. I walked along only to discover that I came to a dead end. My head dropped and I laughed thinking, “of course”. I turned around and started back realizing the effort this was taking. I worried that I wasn’t doing the right thing for my leg, and started to wonder if I should have started at all. Now I had no choice – one way or another – I had to keep going through the circuit.

Again I looked for the path that would take me to the center of the circle. I scanned the layout and mapped my course to figure it out, logically thinking which way I should go to ensure the shortest and most direct path. This time, as it turned out, I chose the longer route and ended up at the same dead end. I laughed and sighed. My leg seared.

I turned around again and started back saying, “there is nothing to figure out”.

There is nothing to figure out.

“What if I get to the center and can’t get out in time when we need to leave? It’s starting to get hot out – I really shouldn’t be doing this.” The mild panic I had been keeping down reared up a bit more strongly.

There is nothing to figure out.

Step. Step.

I stopped looking ahead and instead focused on where I was. I repeated the mantra “there is nothing to figure out”. Slowly finding my way through the stones – not in any way I was defining but by letting go – hoping and trusting that I’d get there. At each opening where paths diverged I didn’t think about it, I merely chose what felt right.

Moving at my own pace and with my mind no longer occupied by worry or attempts to figure it all out, I could feel myself absorbing and exchanging energy with the circuit. I walked more slowly.

My path changed. I walked in different ways through the stones and found myself at the center of the circle. Keeping my leg straight, I set the cane down and laid down to rest. Grateful that I got there even though my route was not what I had wanted or planned at the outset. I let myself lay on the ground, feel the energy of the moment, cool down.

I had more than enough time to find my way, reach the center, rest, and slowly meander back out. I couldn’t take a path I expected because I didn’t know the way at the outset. That didn’t stop me from trying to figure out the future and by sheer force of mind assume I could achieve the outcome. The more I tried to will it and figure out the best route, the deeper and more caught up I became – taking way more steps than I had wanted.

At the beginning I wanted to take few steps to take care of my leg and also didn’t want to miss anything. I wanted to put the least amount of effort in to keep things easeful for my physical body. Instead the effort moved up into my head not only created a more difficult path through but increasing the effort for both my body and my mind.

Maybe I moved around the field last week it was to move through different energy – to collect it or pass through it. There was nothing to find or figure out. There was no effort of mind willing me to one place or another. Instead I listened and followed until something felt right. Who knows? I don’t actually need to figure out why.

Whether it’s moving through a yoga practice, through a stone circuit, a life, perhaps that’s part of what a journey is – moving through from one place to the next with a balance of effort and ease. Finding stillness. Uncovering ways that are already there. Turning around from a path that ends. Incorporating them all. Letting go of the ones that no longer serve. Seeing the role of not getting what is wanted at one moment in time and moving past it. Trust in what is needed at the moment. Finding center. Not having to figure anything out or try to force the course or outcome. There is no wrong path. There are no dead ends. Arriving. Then getting up and continuing on without knowing what the next steps may be and trusting in all that has been and all that will be.

This morning I went to take the last yoga class I would take at a studio nearby, Shambhala East. I woke up feeling called to go to one class in particular.

Through all the communication I had received in the weeks prior about the space closing I had remained neutral. Accepting the change. It didn’t feel upsetting or devastating as it would have in the past. I assumed that meant I was okay with it or not attached to the space enough for it to be painful. I was proud of myself for how I was handling the news because I could remain grounded – nothing I had to brace against or try to fix or try to change. I didn’t have thoughts flooding in or trying to take me in one direction or another. It felt quite simple.

I was happy that I could see this not as bad news, but as something that expanded and contracted and might now expand in different ways again. My outlook felt so different to me because in the past my attachment to something would have meant the change or loss of it had to be painful. Isn’t it supposed to be painful? If it’s not, is it just that I don’t care?

The class was wonderful and as I lay there in savasana at the end I suddenly had image after image appear – memories of experiences held in the space. More memories than I realized existed – my first public yoga class offerings, the energy, people, movement, smiles all flashing by. Taking salsa classes last year and seeing the smile of the teacher and the other students. Workshops I’d attended and led. Leading my first yoga nidra the night we opened the space – following the footsteps of a long legacy of teachers who offered before me that night. Parties. Kirtans. A reunion with my yoga sisters. Conversations. Smiles. Hugs. The space itself. Each memory brought joy, happiness, fullness – and I allowed myself to stay with those powerful feelings. To circle back to them and rest on them.

An image of when my mom came to my class last year surfaced – her presence in the space with me meant so much. I could see us there together in class and then afterward, posing in silly poses with the arch. Laughing. This memory circled and repeated in the mix of the others.

As it did I felt a huge crack in my heart and it opened wider – deeper than ever before in this way. As if light was streaming out and in from my heart at the same time. And from the energy of those memories came and cycled through such a deep feeling of gratitude.

“I’m so grateful. I’m so grateful. Grateful. Grateful” surfaced and repeated – deepening and widening the energy even further.

Tears appeared – flooding up from my heart and releasing out. Wanting release. Not over something terrible or tragic that had happened but from all the healing flashes – moments spent with others sharing in this space. Sharing in the practice. The crack in my heart didn’t hurt. It was opening more and more with gratitude. Gratitude that was always in each of those moments at the time and perhaps was not realized in the same way in those past moments as it was today. The power of the emotion of gratitude was so powerful and strong, but I could stay with it. Experience it.

I was surprised. I didn’t expect any emotional response to come over the studio closing – there hadn’t been in the weeks before. I knew I cared about and for the space, but I didn’t question my neutrality. I had been proud of myself – not for being unemotional but for being able to step through the change and have it not feel like the end of the world. And yet there it was – all of this amazing emotion pouring forth – in such a different, powerful, joyful way.

For the first time ever when facing a change like this I wasn’t focusing on all the painful aspects – there weren’t any appearing for me to stick to. I know in the past I would have created them – the devastation and drama that would have felt like such a deep, painful loss. Feeling the ground of the studio being “taken away” from beneath me and struggling to hold on to something – anything. Easily finding the fear and uncertainty of what this change would bring – catastrophe of course – in order to keep clinging on. To keep feeding the energy of attachment and longing and misery at losing.

It never occurred to me through the news of the studio closing to rest on the moments I loved – not actively. Until they appeared and set in and took over offering a different kind of closure. A different kind of goodbye than what I’ve been used to in the past. Not one full of pain but one still so clearly full of caring and loving. An honouring of what the space brought to me and in that a more easeful way to let go – not filled with pain or regret but with a wide open heart that is working toward acceptance in new ways.

And it is because of the practice of yoga in community in this space and others – all the offerings, the exchanges of giving and receiving, the heart opening, the exploring, the changes in energy and thoughts – all growing and culminating together over time to make this new way of being possible for me. Creating space for this new way of practicing non-attachment – of letting go – full of immense gratitude and with a bright shining heart.

About three years ago I heard and answered the call for a healer and yoga teacher training. From the moment I felt like this was something I wanted to do there immediately were fierce thoughts and beliefs that it couldn’t or wouldn’t happen – that I wouldn’t (or shouldn’t) get to do it.

In the orientation to learn about the program I was crawling out of my skin, climbing the walls with fear and trying to find a way out – I didn’t believe the group would accept me because of something I was working with from my past. I didn’t think I had any right or deserved to be there and yet I so very much loved what the teacher was describing the program would be. I felt myself yearning for healing and being denied. I was completely distraught at feeling like this was something I was called to do and yet being told internally that I couldn’t go. I cried the whole way home. In my panic and tears, I reached out and explained and was soothed enough by the teacher’s kind words that I decided to continue applying to the program, despite the intensity of my reaction.

I was so very clear and adamant from the first day I read about the program that I was not going to be a yoga teacher from this training. I was interested in the healer aspects of the program. For my own healing and something that was also drawing me towards it to offer to others.

I had been practicing yoga for about seven years prior to this about once a week. I didn’t think I could really “do” yoga well but something kept pulling me back and I kept going. It could have been many things. But, seriously, who was I to teach? I believed I had zero ability to form a mind-body connection, no knowledge of the body, and that I could barely do the poses myself. How was I supposed to teach them to other people?

I remember telling the teacher in my interview that I didn’t think my practice was advanced enough for the training, and that I didn’t posses the ability for muscle memory but that I was more interested in the healer program anyway. Trying to find another way out so I could continue to believe I wouldn’t be able to do it, and didn’t deserve to go, while still desperately wanting to.

She accepted me. The path set, and off we went – a small group of us in the training.

I repeated my intention to myself and to others – I am not here to be a yoga teacher. I am not going to teach yoga. There’s no way I’m going to teach and here are all the reasons and excuses as to why. It’s completely impossible. Out of the question.

Another aspect of the requirements for the training was a daily practice. Crap. How the heck is that supposed to happen? And in the morning? I was resistant to this idea but could tolerate it at arms length.

Knowing this requirement, a few months before the program officially started I upped my practice from one class a week to three, determined to meet the goal of a daily practice.

I still felt out of place in my body but definitely stronger (and quickly) from going to class so often. I felt like I could at least participate in the poses with some more confidence and ability.

The day before we concluded our first module we received homework. One assignment had to be done each day and it was suggested it should be in the morning.

I nearly broke down on the spot. Deeply triggered, shaking, and panicked at the thought of trying to fit something else into the morning. How was I going to do that? To add a yoga practice and now this too? Even though it might only take a few minutes it was another thing to incorporate and I couldn’t do it. I saw the “reality” of my mornings flash before me. Typically I stayed in bed until the last possible moment, dragged myself out, rushed through a shower and left for work after some breakfast. It felt like too much to get up earlier in order to do two things.

Working away in my agitation and anxiety (or outright fear and panic to be honest) I found myself saying (or screaming), “I can’t” and “I don’t want to”. I don’t want to have to do something else in my morning. It’s already so hard to get up. It’s already so hard to get up… I don’t want to get up.

Something resonated.

It wasn’t that there were these other things being placed in my day. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to do the practice or homework. It was that for a really long time I hadn’t wanted to get up at all in the mornings. I hadn’t wanted to get up.

Now it felt like I was being forced to and all systems escalated at the threat of this shift. How would the familiar depression keeping me in bed stay alive? It reared its head within that anxiety. I don’t get enough sleep because I can’t fall asleep – I hadn’t slept well in years – I need to stay in bed until the last possible minute. More fear. I don’t have any energy. I don’t want to get up. I hadn’t wanted to get up in years.

That realization deeply shook me into seeing that it wasn’t what was being asked of me at all that was causing the panic. As soon as I could see the truth behind my reaction I knew that these morning practices were just the opposite of my response – they were exactly what I did need. The fear of letting go of that sleep was great but the fear at understanding the reason why and letting it remain true was greater. Why stay in a state of not wanting to get out of bed? I did not want that to be my truth.

And so I started.

On my return from the first module of training I set my alarm early (we’d been waking up for a five a.m. practice while away so this shouldn’t be that big of a deal). I got up and found my mat and moved, in practice. From that first morning the shifts were powerful.

Suddenly I had all of this space and time. I could take the time to cultivate some energy or move more easefully into my day. I had time to be with myself in a way that wasn’t painful or trying to avoid the day. No more getting up at the last minute and rushing out the door. I loved it! Suddenly there was all this expansiveness of time to be in. How wonderful.

Beyond that love I found so quickly that I was getting up to do something I enjoyed. I enjoyed the practice and it became so easy to get up because there was something I wanted to get up for. That, alone, was huge. I wanted to get out of bed. I could even fit the homework in each morning. That immediate resistance and thoughts that there was no way I could do this, overturned.

As the training continued, I still clung strongly to the belief that there was absolutely no way I could be a teacher. I remained reticent to the idea and firm. I repeated my resolve to anyone who asked me about the training. The teacher encouraged all of us to stay open to the possibility from the beginning, even if we didn’t think we wanted to. We were doing all of the work anyway, so keep considering it. She invited us to participate in the first exercise and if, after that, we didn’t want to fulfill the requirements for the teacher training, that was fine but we needed to decide that day.

I was still definitely sure when we were asked to lead our first mini lesson: a guided shavasana.

I was nervous at first with my two fellow students lying in front of me. The five minutes we had to fill stretched before us and as I began something took over. I watched as the two of them started to sink deeper and deeper into relaxation. Whatever had just happened – I loved it!

Within moments after that experience I returned to the group and shared, “so, um… I think I maybe… sorta…. wanna… teach”. I was shocked, excited and amazed.

It felt as though something swooped in at the last moment before the path would have been closed off and overturned all of my thoughts and feelings on the possibility. It had been months of being so clear on what I believed and yet months in parallel of a very small sliver of keeping the possibility open – which grew large enough to overturn those firmly held beliefs. And in that moment, more opened to me as I opened to more possibilities beyond my restricted beliefs.

This past January a studio asked if I wanted to teach a Sunday morning meditation & gentle yoga class. I felt vague hints of those clawing fears and doubts about sleep and not wanting to get up (because I always slept in on the weekends – I needed to – didn’t I?) creep back in like ghosts. Mixed with slight panic at the idea of this change were the subtle thoughts that I didn’t believe I could get up that early and teach. Familiar. Instead of months this time it took hours and after some consideration I felt called to say, “yes”.

And, of course, now I love it. Waking up early on a Sunday morning, heading over to start the day with other wonderful people in community and offering something that I enjoy being a part of. What better way to start off a day than that?

From not believing I could do the training at all (going so far as to believe I wouldn’t be welcome in it), to not believing I wanted to or could to teach, to not believing I wanted to wake up in the mornings (or could) – I can see how that’s all they were – beliefs. The beliefs were beyond strong and integrated so deeply into whom I thought I was that it didn’t seem possible for them to shift or change.

I was gripping so tightly to those beliefs because it felt like they defined me. Propped me up. Created who I was. It was all I knew. Within that construct, my possibilities seemed limited (which helped reinforce those beliefs and kept me contained where I was even though that place was painful). I didn’t have to change at all if I continued to believe these things about myself. But the familiar energy around the beliefs grew to be too painful to not change. The depression and anxiety and depletion of energy were at a point where they had to change and, as they let go, the beliefs shifted too. They worked in concert and at odds with one another over and over again.

Each belief was definitely powerful and strong enough that it could have prevented me from ever changing or moving forward on this path (and tried to!). As encouragement to stay open to possibilities wove into the mix and the subtle awareness of what I needed mixed in with conflicting views of what I wanted (to both stay in bed and to practice for example) over time and through practice, the beliefs shifted, faded, disappeared (or can at least now be recognized when they float up) and I grew into a version of myself that a former believed was simply impossible.

For the past several weeks I keep having appear in different ways a simple message: New Life.

A new life.

What signifies a new life? Is it those life events that mark milestones? A new job, a move, a new house, having a baby, a new relationship, marriage, divorce, retirement?

Am I supposed to be focusing on finding my way to one of those events because this message keeps appearing? Comparing myself to others who “have” them? Or does a new life mean something else entirely?

I recently had an unexpected surgery to remove some near-cancerous cells from my leg. The physical healing process continues, but after about a month my leg started to feel like a leg again.

The very same day it began to feel like a leg I received more biopsy news. More spots tested positively. One, minor enough to not need more work, the other a bit more extreme and should be removed. Neither as far along as the first, but the one that needed to be removed is on my other leg so it could mean not walking again for a couple of weeks. It could mean going through the whole thing again and so soon after the first one.

My brain tried really hard to come up with my typical response such as, “of course, just when everything is feeling great something else happens that I have to deal with. Just when I felt recovered, I’m back at square one. Starting over again. Having to rebuild yet again”.

And even more weakly the whispers of a deeper belief: “I don’t get to rebuild and everyone else does”.

These thoughts have been with me for much of my life, but the deeper belief solidified after another surgery where several months of complications followed. Each time I thought I’d be going back to the doctors to hear that everything was resolved and I could build myself back up, it wasn’t. And each time I felt torn apart, dragged deeper and deeper into the pain of these beliefs (because obviously they were proving to be true). The nature of the situation was such that I was sure I kept getting knocked over and pushed further and further away from being able to build a life at all, while another person’s life in particular seemed to keep growing in the direction I wanted. He seemed to keep getting to “have” and build his life in the ways that I kept being reminded by these experiences I wasn’t or couldn’t.

Recently I could see how what felt like a huge gaping wound for so long from my previous experience had somehow transformed along the way. Somewhere along the way it no longer felt like a gaping, exposed wound. It was no longer destructive. Somewhere along the way the wound transformed into a huge force of love and healing.

What if every experience can be viewed as healing?

I mean, the all of these results came back as “positive” and while I like to see all experience and energy as neither positive or negative but neutral I can’t help but wonder about the use of that word. In any other situation you look forward to hearing “positive” news, except when it comes to test results from your doctor.

What if these little spots are positive for me? Marks of healing ready to be released and transformed into something else.

Shortly after the last surgery on my leg I was feeling so deeply well in mind, body and spirit – better than I’d ever felt. I’m not saying it’s because of the surgery at all, but that the experience didn’t take anything away from me. I don’t have to start from scratch – in fact, there is no such place. There’s nothing to rebuild and no sense of loss or destruction to have to rebuild from.

Even though these thoughts started to surface when faced with the news of the positive results, I couldn’t buy into them. They didn’t make sense because I had been feeling so great lately and that was so soon after just experiencing something similar. My true nature had felt like it’s shining through strongly and that wasn’t impacted by the last surgery so how can anything take that away?

Instead of allowing the thoughts to take over and drag me down deeply into how I’d felt in similar situations in the past I couldn’t quite see how they fit any more.

Yes, this is a new condition to manage – but I’m not destroyed by it. I’m not even back at square one. This situation may feel similar but it’s not the same and those other experiences aren’t related and aren’t still happening.

In this moment I have the potential for a completely new experience, even with another surgery. I have the ability to choose whether or not to allow those thoughts and beliefs to run my life.

So maybe the message of creating a new life doesn’t mean picking up and moving to a new place, getting a new job, having a baby, or any other variation of a major life event.

Maybe it’s that I get this chance to live similar situations differently. To allow every experience to be healing. To incorporate it all into my life. This life.

We hear in yoga all the time to be in the present moment. Maybe instead of expecting what has felt true in the past to become my truth it’s possible to be present in this moment for this experience, which could always be entirely different. To not let my assumption of this experience influence the future that hasn’t yet happened.

Perhaps there is constantly an opportunity to create a new life in every single moment.

An opportunity to tell a new story. In time the old story disappears until similar situations no longer even register as points of comparison and the new story becomes a new way of living. A new life.

Last week I noticed that I was walking super slowly. Softly putting one foot in front of the other and taking small steps. No matter where I was going or what plans I had.

I had been enjoying this slowness for a few days, noticing it from time to time and letting myself be. As my awareness grew I realized I was softly smiling as I walked. I could take in and see the world around me. My breath felt easeful, even, and grounded – the pace of my breath matching my movement. I’d realized that (until I started to think about it) there had been no thoughts – I found that I had been humming at length instead.

When I’ve tolerated slowing down (painstakingly) in the past it was because I was sick. Even then it felt nothing like the quality of this slowness because I didn’t want to slow down. I wanted to keep going. I wouldn’t rest much and would be back at work before I should have been or dragging myself through the day – anything to avoid slowing down and resting.

If I slow down doesn’t it mean that something is wrong? Aren’t I only supposed to slow down if something is wrong? (And fight against it at all costs?).

Over the past month I went through a minor surgery on my leg. Livid at first at the surprise that I wouldn’t be able to move for two days at all, and likely not much movement for two weeks.

It took me four days and lots of support to be able to start to accept slowing down.

Four days.

After the last surgery I had it took over four years to slow down.

From that earlier experience of surgery came several months of complications and woven in between and through it all the strong, deep workings of trauma. I couldn’t even fathom slowing down as a possibility. My breath was constantly tight, short, restricted and moving quickly up in my heart. My thoughts zipped along as fiercely and my body struggled to keep up – pushing through. All of it completely intolerable and unsustainable but it felt normal to me. I couldn’t see any alternate possibility and the energy felt like it had a hold over me and I was just being dragged along for the tumultuous ride.

It already felt like it was in my nature to rush but as the hyper vigilance of post-trauma kicked in it escalated to new levels of intensity.

I mean, aren’t I supposed to move at a fast pace because I’m capable of it? To keep moving? Keep doing things? Keep filling up all this space and time to not be bored? If I slow down then maybe that means I’m not smart or able, doesn’t it? If I slow down people will be able to tell that something is wrong and I can’t let that happen. Maybe it means something terrible will happen. Maybe it means I’ll have to face all of those huge, heightened emotions and that’s just too much. No. Keep moving. Keep running. Keep fleeing.

My pace became beyond rapid, fleeing from something that felt like it was always happening in the present even though the moment had long passed. If I moved quickly I could get away from it, right? Or wouldn’t have to face it at least. Maybe if I moved fast enough then I could actually find some speed at which I could skip over it – like none of it ever happened.

Except that in time, and with support and tools including therapy, gentle asana, restorative yoga, yoga nidra and meditation, I have been able to not only face but feel and see all that I was trying to move away from. The heightened emotions weren’t gone as a result of trying to get away from them – they had to be given space to surface and release. The energy needed to shift but it needed time and with each practice, class, workshop, retreat, little bits of new energy entered in until eventually the feeling that all that energy had a hold over me disappeared and we started to work together. As I introduced little bits of slowness into my life, eventually the fast-pace I had thought was my nature dissipated.

From this place of slowness I feel as though I am actually in this present moment and not the ones that were replaying from the past. Instead of reserving a state of slowness to come in to effect only if and after something is “wrong”, I can now tell that if my breath restricts, my thoughts and pace also beginning to quicken, then something actually is immediately wrong and needs to be addressed in order to regain the slowness.

I thought that the fast pace would be how I found freedom but it was just the opposite. Slowing down, releasing, and being with myself has brought so much more freedom than I could ever have fathomed.

“I don’t ask for help and I don’t want to be here”.

Those were the first words I stated firmly as I defiantly took my seat in my first therapy session over three years ago. I may have even glared as I said it.

I’ve always fought to figure things out on my own so that I wouldn’t need to ask for help. I’ve fiercely resisted, pushed away and didn’t believe in receiving help. I could manage. I could do it.

I could do it by myself. Me. Mine.

More recently, I’ve been feeling a desire for help even if I didn’t know what that meant or how it looked. As if on cue, a chance to practice appeared.

Last week I had a tiny little freckle of a mole on the top of my left thigh removed after results showed that it tested positive for stains of Melanoma-A.

On doctor’s orders I moved quickly to book an appointment to excise the mole and didn’t know what to expect as a result of the procedure. It didn’t occur to me that it was surgery. I’d never had stitches before and it was such a small tiny thing, I didn’t think anything of it. When the doctor mentioned (after she had cut into my leg) that I wouldn’t be able to walk for the next two days or move much for the next two weeks. I was angry for not being prepared in advance but also didn’t quite understand. How could such a wee thing have such a major impact?

I thought of all the plans I had coming up in the next few days – tickets for a play that very night, highland dancing, swing dancing, offering a few yoga classes, meeting friends, taxes, massage, work… the list of events and commitments went on. No preparation or ability to try to change plans or timing. Feelings started to attach to thoughts that all those things I had been looking forward to were being “taken away” from me – a long-held belief.

I took the subway home and stayed there, alone, with my leg propped up still not convinced of the severity of what had happened and not able to slow down yet. I knew with nearly every fiber of my being that I should stay home with my leg up but I wanted to see people. I didn’t want to be alone but didn’t know that yet. I wanted support but only knew how to push forward (if I wanted to see people I had to be the one to go out to them) and so I walked down the street, took the subway and went to the play.

After the arduous journey to the theatre, telling the story to my friends helped immensely as I saw their instant camaraderie and supportive anger towards the doctor not preparing me more came through. I was surprised and grateful for their response. Our conversation moved to how we can choose to live such separate lives in this city and it dawned on me that it’s so easy to hide things here. I could have stayed home and not let them know. Not let anyone know and try to manage it by myself as I have always done before.

On the way home, moving as slowly as I thought possible, I felt a shift in the stitches and there was a rush of blood out of the wound. Under the pressure my leg experienced it felt like it had burst. That certainly caught my attention and I figured one day of rest would do the trick so I stopped as best I could the next day, fearful that I had ruined everything and that the wound wouldn’t heal.

A dear friend came over in the morning, bringing gorgeous pink roses and ushering in such a strong feeling of support, healing, and love. When I went to get up to get water, she asked what I was doing, and got it for me. “Oh, right,” I thought. Her being there and helping meant I didn’t have to do it all on my own.

Her company helped me to feel much better. Later in the day when I felt myself start to amp up to moving I realized instead that since the morning was so lovely maybe more company would be nice. I did something without hesitation that I’d never done before: I sent an email out to some friends who live nearby and explained what was happening. I asked if anyone could drop by.

The responses were instant. One person came that night and then others came by in the following day. Wow!

As the visits and deep, meaningful, conversations flowed; I realized how much fun I was having. How what was happening right now seemed wonderful and who needed all those other plans?

It didn’t take long for me to start to see that nothing was “taken away” from me. Nothing was taken away. I was loved, supported, and cared for – how is that having anything taken away? Every interaction was adding to my life.

As more and more people responded, I reached out to a few others. I started becoming more comfortable when people got me water or did my dishes or brought over food. The strong resistance I had held onto in the past around accepting help fell further and further away. I felt myself start to surrender and let go – more than I ever had.

By day two of being at home I still thought I could move, but just not walk. So I asked for help again and received a ride over to the yoga studio to participate in a friend’s first class as an instructor. I was amazed at how much of her class I could do without standing. I only braved the stairs once instead of twice, so that had to be good, right? I was doing less. I had rested for a whole day. I didn’t try to walk. I had let go of some of my plans.

Again, my leg was throbbing by the time I got home. How could such a minor wound impact so much? I had slowed down, hadn’t I? I had cut down my plans and stayed at home and was doing way less than normal. Surely that was enough, right?

And then I saw it. I removed the bandage for the first time and I saw the long slender incision cut across the top of my thigh. I saw the little crisscrossed stitches holding it in place. It looked fragile and as if the skin on either side was so pliable it could come apart easily.

Okay, now I understood just how important this was. All the rest of the yoga classes, work, and other plans needed to be canceled. I could do that. Nothing taken away.

By now my entire right side was in severe pain, my knees, hips, shoulders, back – all in so much pain from compensating for the inability to use the left side of my body.

More friends came over and helped. I moved less. I became more comfortable with people helping, bringing and making food, bringing movies, doing dishes, watering the plants, even tidying my house and doing laundry. I started to say “thank you” instead of “you don’t have to do that”. More great conversations. More sharing. More company. More and more beautiful and meaningful interactions! It was so filling and fun.

In this state of pain I decided to keep the massage and energy work session I had booked ages ago. It was just down the street. By now I knew it was way too far to walk, even if it was only half a block away. I was actually terrified to walk that far but also knew my body and energy needed the help in healing that the session would bring.

I walked as slowly as I thought possible. And by the time I arrived was limping fully, right side feeling the damage of misalignment and taking all the effort. My shoulders and back rounded and slumping forward, trying to cut my brain off from the pain.

The session was wonderful and my body felt amazing afterward. And at the end, the sweet woman offering asked if she could call someone so they could carry me home?

In the past I would have instantly resisted – fully and completely. I would have fought and then suffered and dragged myself all the way home, re-harming my body. “I don’t ask for help”. But it was offered so easily and now I had so much practice by saying yes to help, I agreed with ease and speed.

I hadn’t really thought about what this meant until, with one of them on each side of me, and my arms wrapped around their shoulders, they hoisted me up, carried me out of the building and down the street. It was hilarious and awesome and couldn’t help laughing at what was happening as they carried me. A passer-by even stopped and asked if we needed help. Help seemed to be in every interaction – flowing all around.

We got close to home and decided to walk the rest of the way. With someone on each side of me holding me up, my walking slowed to the pace of a snail. Barely taking half steps. I had thought I was walking slowly and with care the few times I’d tried to do it before but this made me realize that even though it was slow compared to my normal gait, I had still not slowed down as much as I possibly could. My slowness was still quite fast.

It wasn’t until I was physically fully surrounded by the support of others that I could completely slow down.

It wasn’t until a person was standing closely on either side of me, holding me up, that I could take the steps I needed to take.

It wasn’t until I let all of the wonderful people around me in to help that I could stop and heal.

Surrender.

Who new surrender and letting go of resistance could be so fun?

As I settled into home, I saw an image of all pieces inside my body working together to try to help this wound heal in relation to all the people coming to support and work together to help me heal. I started to see that all the constructed plans I had set for the weekend had such a different quality to the interactions that I was experiencing by staying put and not running around all over creation.

Surrender. I hear that all the time in yoga, but where is it in the teachings? I couldn’t remember exactly so, now on day four of (actually) resting, walking around the apartment as minimally as possible and using a Swiffer as a walking stick for even more support, I opened Heart of the Yogi by Doug Keller.

Scanning the book for teachings on surrender I found reference to a niyama, Ishwara-Pranidhanani or a complete surrender and devotion to the Divine. Okay, yes, that was happening here by letting go of the plans and seeing it not as being “taken away” and giving over to whatever divine intervention this was, but it didn’t resonate as fully. I then found a reference to savasana pose and surrendering to death by practicing letting go in life. No, not quite what I was experiencing… Then something caught my eye, “The Role of the Kula – The Community”.

I turned to the page and read, “we identify with a community which is more than the individual and yet does not exist apart from the individuals of which it is made. The experience of the community is our first very real experience of transcendence of our own individuality – one which takes a certain degree of surrender” (145).

Yes.

It was more than fulfilling my individual desire for help. Much more. A transcendence of sorts from that former self who claimed “I don’t ask for help” because a fierce desire to hold onto my individuality as identity required hiding myself from others at all costs to one of openness and sharing. In sharing what was happening and trusting that I’m supported in the process, others could come in and share as well. It wasn’t just an experience of me receiving help and what I need, but a surrendering to becoming part of the greater whole.

Several exchanges took place in sharing ourselves over the few days. We shared with one another. New connections and relationships formed. It wasn’t about focusing all attention on me. It was a surrender by many of us that allowed true community to flood in. This community “exists as a genuine connection of spirits in which egos are transcended” and is critical to the health of the individual (145).

The kula or community in yoga ideally “provides the connection between our inner life and our outer practice” (146). It becomes the medium through which there is a process of knowing. This is true of my experience in this case. The internal struggle and healing around being more authentic in relation to seeking help was brought forth into an outer practice only because of the kula. It would have been impossible otherwise.

Not to mention all the thousands of other interactions and moments of practice in community, each helping contribute over time to this experience of surrender. It took years and so many people to allow this transcendence to happen.

This helped me to see in a new way that in yoga, as in life, we are in community. In every class and centering and meditation and pose we share together. Sharing our experience, not in isolation, but as individuals who are part of a whole, a whole that cannot exist without each individual present. In sharing ourselves we help each other, support each other, carry each other, guide and learn from each other. It happens in fleeting moments over and over and over again contributing to the constant evolution of each person and the world around us.

Lately I keep hearing or seeing all over the place the idea that we are all pleasure-seeking organisms. From when I first heard this a few years ago it has never resonated with me.

Maybe because it has taken me a long time to cultivate a practice of enjoyment (like rolling down hills) or because it’s never been how I’ve thought of myself.

I’ve always believed that I’m the “strong one”, the “brave one”, the “responsible one”, even the “heartbroken one” or “persecuted one”. Those archetypes don’t really leave much room for belief that there is anything at all enjoyable in life. It’s supposed to be all hard and painful – isn’t it? Or at least I should constantly be getting ready to expect that it will be…shouldn’t I? So where is there pleasure in that ever-vigilant existence?

I didn’t get it.

Even as I find myself continuing to open to the concept of enjoyment – pleasure – I haven’t been able to quite see myself ever identifying with the “pleasure-seeking one”. Except…

The other weekend I went to a movement and dance workshop with Donofrio Dance Company in Brooklyn. We were guided through a masterful series of exercises culminating in one where we each took turns dancing or making movement and everyone had to copy the leader as a group.

What happened was interesting. I had been so much out of my head and in my body for most of the workshop that my thoughts weren’t running the show. My mind was quiet. My body in flow. Everything felt good. I felt good.

Then a leader started moving in a way that was uncomfortable to me and to my body.

“I don’t want to do this any more”. Bam! Instant deep thought.

We moved on to enjoyable movements (for me). No thoughts came up.

Another movement that brought discomfort arose and so did my thoughts only now there were even more. “I’m bored. I want to stop. How long is this going to go for?”

Enjoyable movement returned – no thoughts – joy even spreading back through me. I smiled. I felt blissful in every cell.

Discomfort returned in another movement and my thoughts grew more and more wild, the energy behind them became more forceful “why am I even here? I want to leave. I want to leave. I want to leave. When is this going to be over? I don’t want to do this any more”, and I started scheming ways to get out of the room. Watching the door and planning my escape over and over – the details becoming more and more elaborate.

I did stop at one point to get some water, taking a break from the uncomfortable movement and a moment to check in with all of the thoughts that were rising to the surface.

When it was over I shared my experience with the group and what had just happened stayed with me.

I could see how I moved from discomfort to places of enjoyment only a few seconds later. So being in those uncomfortable places didn’t last forever. Though it felt like it would while I was in them. My thoughts kept getting more and more intense – but what were they actually saying? They were essentially telling me to seek pleasure saying, “ick- you don’t like this – go to something that feels good – right now – get us all out of here!”

I can see how that happens in life – and the larger a current or anticipated discomfort feels the deeper and more intense my thoughts might be. Convincing me in a myriad of ways to not go there. Danger. Danger.

Sometimes that is justifiable and useful – when there actually is something dangerous happening in the present moment. Most of the time (gratefully) in my life there isn’t true immediate danger so perhaps it’s also necessary for me to know that discomfort is only temporary.

I can see now how over my life I have built up elaborate ways of believing that all that what lays ahead will likely be painful and intolerable which has led to fear. I always thought it was fear of being in pain but actually now I think it was also a fear that there would never be a return to pleasure. That if I move away from pleasure, I won’t be able to get it back. And just in case that uncomfortable (current or perceived) experience becomes so big it feels insurmountable then I will have to believe that I am strong enough to get through it.

I no longer need to assume that I AM all of those archetypes when I can now see that they were constructed. It must have started with one experience of discomfort that had thoughts rise up around it except somehow I got stuck there. I must not have liked what was happening but a part of me believed the thoughts were true and in their strength, they stayed with me. Over time, my thoughts surrounding discomfort and pleasure grew with each experience that fit the bill, reinforcing my beliefs, and ultimately helped me create what I believed I needed to be in order to cope with what I believed life to be.

This happened until it was all so thick and focused on constantly seeking or preparing for or staying in discomfort (because current discomfort must feel better than that future unknown discomfort, right?), it didn’t feel like there was any pleasure in life. Except in this workshop I didn’t even notice I was in a state of pleasure until it was gone. There are now spaces in between what has previously felt like constant discomfort where I feel and enjoy pleasure. There always were – I just couldn’t always see them because they didn’t fit in with what I believed and my thoughts were constantly running. So then maybe I can also be the “fun one”, the “spontaneous one”, the “happy one”, the “love-able one”, the “pleasure-seeking one”. Maybe I always have been, I just didn’t believe it.

Underneath that avoidance at its core is the desire to seek to be in pleasure constantly. It feels counter-intuitive in a way because the thoughts can be so powerful (at least in my experience) and maybe those deepest, devastating thoughts aren’t actually calls towards getting out of the room but a way of saying bring on the constant pleasure and allow the enjoyment of life.

As I saw in the workshop if I was in a moment of discomfort – actually in it in real time – it passed. Pleasure came again.

This experience reminded me that on retreat last year I noticed that every time I went into a balancing pose my thoughts went from zero to a million instantly. Escalating in energy so much that I’d fall over. Balancing at that time was not pleasurable and my thoughts took over to get me out of it.

Does that mean I should start believing that I can never do a balancing pose again? Does it mean I stop practicing those poses? No. Though I do know they don’t happen much in my own practice – so I go to classes to make sure I practice being in them (and sometimes, recently, they feel very pleasurable).

If I can tolerate those temporary moments of discomfort – know that just as I move from one pose to another this state too will pass. Then, perhaps I no longer need to believe that the elaborate schemes are true but know that discomfort happens sometimes. That when it occurs there’s nothing to be afraid of. I can be with it and can tolerate the sensations and thoughts, but do not need to get stuck in that state of perpetual discomfort. I no longer need to allow those thoughts in the moment to expand so much that they become beliefs not just of how I experience life but of who I believe I am. To know that they’re just thoughts because of the discomfort I’m experiencing in that moment (or as a way of trying to keep me out of something in the future that I perceive as discomfort) and that it will pass. To trust that instead of having to believe I am a certain way that I have the ability to navigate those difficult moments as they arise.

To know that pleasure will return again, and I can allow it to flow, but to not get stuck in it either. In the experience at the workshop I could move back and forth between the two states and, in time, perhaps I can be with the states of discomfort and pleasure both equally, trusting in both states that I know how to be, and bringing into balance all of who I am.

The other day I watched through my window as big puffy snowflakes gently floated down from the sky. As I saw them cover the landscape beyond I imagined the street, covered, full of slush and noticed my subtle responses towards the snow. I was instantly overcome with blahness and slight anger or frustration at feeling like I wanted to stay inside or that any desire to go outside was now taken away from me. Severed. In the same moment I recalled how I used to respond as a kid – with joy, excitement and wanting to be out in it. Passionately. The magic and fun of endless hours of play and creation waiting for me on a blank canvas – you couldn’t drag me inside or keep me from it.

So much so that once, when I was quite small, at the sight of the first snowflakes that I year I bundled myself up in my snowsuit, went and found my sled, and sat at the top of the green, grassy hill in our backyard. Patiently waiting for enough snow to accumulate so I could slide down.

What happened? Is it just that I no longer have snow pants or proper boots to keep me warm and dry? Or is it something more?

The gap between the two versions of myself opened a sad cavern in my heart to explore and I discovered that it is significantly more.

About a year ago I had a desire to draw again – another thing I used to do freely as a child. I was actually nervous as I went to the art supply store – uncertain of what to buy. I settled on pastels and a block of drawing paper. When I got home I unwrapped the packages and my hand trembled at picking up the pastel as I thought, “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know what to do or what to draw”. How could something that used to seem so innate and fluid now incite such fear? It’s drawing for goodness sake. But that’s what was happening – fear and uncertainty turning to panic in the face of something I wasn’t even sure why but I wanted to do. It took every part of me to connect pastel to paper and the first few drawings were quite rigid. I would work up the courage to try again every so often and in time, it began to slowly flow and I no longer cared what the drawings looked like or if it was “right”. I no longer had to think of what it was I wanted to draw or how to do it, I simply had to trust that something would come and allow it to move through me. This would happen from time to time until one day after a long yoga practice the energy tipped off my mat and onto page after page after page – one creation after the other came tumbling out of me. And it felt wonderful.

Fits and starts of creative energy had started to emerge. I was still cautious, but trust and allowance began to take hold even more deeply.

The day after I thought about the snow I offered a restorative and yoga nidra workshop with the theme of desire. In the weeks leading up to the workshop I focused on my second chakra – the center of creation, sensuality, desire. Two main concepts kept coming to me from my exploration. One – that sensations are the building blocks for all other information – emotions, thoughts, beliefs and if we can notice sensations and be present with them then we have more ability to allow and work with everything else and two – that to cut off desire is to cut of a huge part of our consciousness. To cut off anything limits consciousness and in order to be healthy all consciousness must be open.

I was so excited as the building blocks of the workshop revealed themselves. Different threads appeared and culminated in an offering as if all on their own. I had been focused on offering something for others and afterwards, felt so grateful and in complete reverence to all who came and shared together – in awe at being able to be a part of it all.

The night of the workshop something unexpected happened. I had a very vivid dream that started with a deep contraction and then my water broke. It felt as though it was actually spilling out of me and across the floor. I woke up feeling calmer and more at peace than I have ever felt. Since it felt like a significant dream (for many reasons) I took a deeper look and as I continued to delve into it I realized that I had just that day “delivered” the workshop. I had been able to receive, trust and allow all those pieces of information to come and move through me and appear in a way that gave birth to a brand new creation. Not in a way that it was “mine” at all but in a way that I was lucky enough to be a channel for this creation to emerge and be in the world.

In the days that followed the dream caused me to look back and see how, over time, I did slowly but surely cut off the creative part of my consciousness. One part of it after another closed as I moved from being outside to in, from experiencing and exploring the world to reading about and studying experience in books, from writing creatively to being the support and operations to allow others to write, to stopping drawing all together. All leading up to the painful point in which I didn’t believe I could create anything at all. I was no longer “creative”. It was no longer allowed and that part of me was thought dead.

What does that mean? Is it just that a few drawings or stories won’t be in the world? That maybe there are fewer yoga classes? Not enough snow forts or snow angels? No. This feels more critical and fundamental than that.

If this center is closed off and remains closed off then how can I create anything? How can I allow the creation of healthy relationships, children, love, desire, passion? How can I create a life that looks like the one I desire? More than that how can I create the life that is the one I desire? The creative energy didn’t stop it just no longer had healthy places to go and I could no longer trust it in the same way because I no longer believed it existed. It had to move instead in ways that would line up with my belief of its death so I denied the existence of sensations and emotions that came up and my thoughts changed to come in line with this belief. Until eventually I took steps to actively deprive myself of creation.

It now feels as though to cut off the part of consciousness that relates to creation is to sever so much more. As I look around through this lens I can see that everything in this life is creation. And if creativity is blocked the creation of our lives becomes truncated. Distorted. Twisted and gnarled around the block. That distortion becomes reflected in everything around us as well as the mental and emotional landscape within us.

As I continue to allow this center to open, my life comes more and more into alignment. As I listen to, trust and allow the moments of creation in each day it is in those moments that I feel like my true self: a channel for creation to flow through. The more I can allow this freedom and opening of consciousness the more I can see that my life has been altering again to now allow healthy creation. Whether it’s bundling myself up to build a snow fort unlike one the world has ever seen, drawing whenever the mood strikes, listening to a yoga workshop or class and allowing it to come through, or to create hours of exploration out in the world (or inside my apartment) I intend to continue to nurture this piece of consciousness that has felt injured and worked around for so very long and trust in every part of creating this life.

In thinking about desire and about my upcoming workshop offering around this topic my mind keeps returning to this quote:

“The obstacle to our continual satisfaction is that we reduce our desire instead of allowing it to blossom out over all objects. A reduced desire blocks the fluidity of consciousness, sensations, thoughts, and emotions. When a single object takes an exclusive place in our mind, when our being reaches towards this object in a sort of contracted tension, the movement ceases within us and suffering finds its home in us.

On the other hand, when our desire occupies all of space the absence of one object goes totally unnoticed, because the flow of our awareness remains free to come into contact with thousands of others.” –Desire, Daniel Odier

And in particular this line: A reduced desire blocks the fluidity of consciousness, sensations, thoughts, and emotions.

Blocks the fluidity of consciousness.

A reduced desire blocks the fluidity of consciousness.

It’s almost as if these words have been haunting me in a way that makes so much sense.

My relationship with desire has been to block it off. Block it, as well as pretty much any other emotion or person who may illicit emotions I’d rather not experience. Over time it has become quite difficult to discern what was being blocked off – pain, pleasure, joy, anger. This, I’ve learned is quite normal especially in terms of coping mechanisms. But the coping mechanisms are meant to only be there for the time needed to cope and then it’s time to move on and let them go.

So how did blocking of desire become one of them? I think it became easier along the way to assume that good things don’t happen and that everything I want keeps getting taken away from me. So logically, isn’t it best to just not desire in the first place? To not have any expectations in case they aren’t met? That way obviously nothing can be lost because there’s nothing I want or can be excited about. “Simply” block it off. That way I won’t be disappointed with the inevitable outcome later.

This all seems quite juvenile and stunted in growth of holding onto pure absolutes as I look at it now with more awareness. To see that truly a large part of my consciousness has been blocked off for a very long time. To say I can see it does not mean it’s now flowing freely, the block completely removed. Far from it. But my mind is opened to seeing the necessity of letting it flow in order to have a healthy consciousness and not one that is so splintered and stagnated in this area.

To speak of objects and desire in the material form – last week I lost my favourite hat on the train. I was distracted and got up only to sense it falling from my lap but not realizing the truth of the matter until I had walked across the platform and was seated on the next train. I felt instantly sad at the loss of my hat. It was all my favourite colours and I was subtly angry that I had lost it. I couldn’t quite let it go. I tried to believe “maybe someone who really needs that hat to stay warm will find it” or “the universe decided the hat needed an adventure”. Within the lens of desire I watched my responses.

I told a few friends and my mom about my loss, hoping to solicit some care and empathy. I then told myself “you have plenty of hats at home, let it go”. Only to be met with “but that one was my favourite hat”. Then my thoughts drifted to this concept of desire. Couldn’t I let my desire flow out over all of my hats equally? Couldn’t I just choose another one to wear and also love it? I’d waiver between this and the fact that hat was my favourite. A few days passed and I was still clearly not able to let the hat go. Suffering. What I noticed was that I was now starting to elevate other hats I had. Thinking, “perhaps that one can be my new favourite… or that one” as I brought each one to mind. “No, stop it – that is not the point of this – the point is to allow desire to not only fall on one thing but to flow – a new favourite just gets me into the same predicament”. And as I thought about it more I realized that this favourite hat I lost is one I had only just re-found in my closet about a month before. I had completely forgotten about it until we were reunited. It’s as though it was found only to be lost. It wasn’t even in my mind before then and now here I was suffering because my desire for it had grown into such a strong attachment. Flow. Let the desire flow over everything.

The past week (starting with the hat day) I’ve felt a bit off and just not quite “with it”. There seems to be an overwhelming cacophony of reasons why this may be happening and I’m not really sure which thing it is making me feel not well. Is it mental? Physical? Massive energetic releases? Family members who potentially aren’t well? Upcoming dates marking past loss? Did I have the flu but it was impacting me differently than normal? Therapy work? I took a few days off to rest, and definitely needed them.

And yesterday I had appear this thought – so very small. “Help”.

“I’d like help”.

“Help”.

But with what? I don’t even know what is wrong. What do I need help with?

Which made me think further – do I have to know what is wrong in order to ask for help? Hm. Does something even have to be “wrong” in order to ask for help? Hm.

I suspect that the answer to both of those questions is “no”. It isn’t so absolute.

I have never heard this voice before nor have I ever thought about help in this way. I didn’t feel anxious by this thought. I felt quite calm and just listened to it be there. I didn’t feel desperate or in great need.

My guess is that for most of my life I’ve believed that if I can figure it out by myself – the what is wrong – then I no longer have to ask anyone to help. Obviously if I know what’s wrong then I will be able to fix it and can simply block the help out. Block it out.

Help. The voice was so clear but so quiet at first. It continued to grow. Help. I want help.

Desire. I desire help. I have absolutely no idea what that means or what it looks like. I do know that they are two things I have never really allowed. Which means they are two parts of my consciousness that have been cut off. Are they different parts? Or one and the same?

Can I allow myself to be helped? To say I need help even if I don’t know why or for what reason? Can I desire even wanting help in the first place?

My thoughts moved to practicing yoga on the mat. I’ve been to so many classes where the teacher has adjusted me in poses. I never once asked for that help (other than by virtue of walking into the room). But I always always always allowed it and received it with a feeling of being grateful. And it truly is helpful each and every time. To me it continues to be a great part of attending classes – to receive this help even when I’m completely unaware that I even need it or what it is that I need.

How does this tie into the hat? No one on the train said anything. I saw people watch my hat fall to the ground and look at me and no one helped me. I can see their eyes witnessing it. More than that hat, I desired the helpfulness of strangers. The help without having to ask or to even know what it was I needed in that moment. And not one person said anything.

So what are my choices? To decide to be angry with every person and believe no one will ever help me? (So that I have to figure it out and do it all by myself?). Or to start to allow that small voice way back in the recesses of my mind to grow and continue to surface. To let myself fully desire help. To desire and embrace it even if it doesn’t look like how I might think help looks on the surface. To let it pour out and over and around me. To not only desire it but to receive it to have a relationship that flows around and through and with it. To see that maybe help can be quite sweet. And maybe isn’t in relation to something being “wrong” or having done anything “wrong”. Ultimately, to practice not blocking it off. To desire help.

Though this still limits desire to one aspect and not all, it’s one more opening of consciousness I didn’t have before.

Ever since my yoga teacher training I have had a daily practice on my mat. During the week, I wake up, make my herbal infusion and the move into a meditation practice followed by asana (sometimes restorative depending on the day). All before breakfast and heading off to work.

This morning I woke up before my alarm and cuddled, warm and cozy in bed. I was smiling and looking forward to my morning ritual perhaps more than usual.

I went to the bathroom and upon flushing discovered that the toilet had clogged. I (of course) flushed again just in case that might work, but alas, no. The water and its contents started to rise until the bowl overflowed out onto the floor. I got towel after towel to mop it up. With everything at least temporarily secured I stood for a while – caught between my morning practice and this unexpected event. I contemplated leaving it until later – avoid the fact that something was blocked to the point of even thinking, “perhaps it will just go away on its own” – because I still wanted to practice.

Then with a moment of clarity I decided that this needs to be dealt with now. It’s not going to change without some work and I can’t leave a clogged toilet – chances are I’ll need to use it again. I didn’t have the necessary tools to deal with this situation. So I had a shower, got dressed, stuffed my wet hair under my hat and trudged off to the hardware store to get a plunger.

On the way there I noticed my thoughts and the sensations in my body.

In the past – especially at times of working within a hyper-vigilant state of post-trauma this start to my day could have been met in a few ways. I may have panicked at the sight of the water rising – anxiety taking over – feeling like I didn’t know what to do (and I couldn’t do anything to stop this apparent disaster from happening). I would have tried to will it to be different or to stop and been upset that willpower wasn’t enough to change this reality. I could have burst into tears that something else, yet again, was going wrong. The emotions and sensations would have built to a point of overflowing – all pouring out around me. My thoughts could have dragged me deeper and deeper into the internal sludge and I certainly would have been furious that my day had to start off this way. Angry that any good feeling I’d had from the morning was now lost (never to return!) and clearly this was all done to take my practice away from me.

Instead… as I walked to the store I noticed that it was a bright winter’s day. I smiled at the cold air on my skin and at the row of what seemed like fifty pigeons sitting along a roofline. I noticed just how blue the sky looked. Not a hint of anxiety had appeared.

My thoughts appeared, saying, “I guess this is my practice today” with a smile. Perhaps I need to focus on saucha (cleanliness) as my practice today by mopping the bathroom floor. I mean, I don’t have to practice on the mat this morning – and there is a whole day ahead of me to get there. I smiled more deeply as I thought, “yoga is at least in part about flexibility – so of course having flexibility around my practice is a part of it”. It’s not about the routine. It can shift. Change. Move. It’s fluid.

It is through this practice that my responses to this situation changed. Through years of understanding different sensations in my body, breath, prana, thoughts and working with unclogging and releasing so many energetic, physical and psychological blocks. To not have to overflow around them but to remove them and allow myself to flow more freely.

And instead of bracing against the unexpectedness of my morning – instead of merely tolerating it or being angry with it (or the world or myself) or pushing through it I had the ability to move with it. To have the flexibility so that this was just another experience. And to know that I had cultivated the tools, and created the space for this practice – however it may appear.

I was able to find a plunger, return home, and the clog was removed after just one attempt. Easy. It couldn’t have done it by itself, but the water began to flow once again. The block only temporary – as they all are.