I wanted to write a hero story about my one year sobriety anniversary, a story about all the presence I’ve experienced with my children. About the peace and patience that have found permanent spots in my body. About behaviors that used to be wildly foreign and uncomfortable, like saying no, sitting still, and honoring myself. These behaviors have become more familiar.
I wanted to write about healing by unearthing pain from my body, and letting it go, but that makes the journey sound too transcendent. In reality, days have been hard, and often grueling. They require discipline and self-care.
There is no coping mechanism for being jarred awake in life.
In yoga, we access our true Self through the body. This fascinates me. We should not pretend that our body is merely physical, as if it supports our life and our organs, but that’s it. We should not lie and say the physical body does not matter. Our entire society is obsessed with people’s bodies! So it matters. But yoga is not appearance and it’s not clothes. It’s not poses or flexibility. It’s not toned muscles and perfect Warrior poses. Yoga is a journey, and a path to truth and enlightenment.
Embarking on a quest brings tail wagging excitement upon anticipation. Images scroll through your mind, and you of course create a rendition of the final product – the photo snapped when you finally reach the mountain’s peak. But in the middle of the process, as you are climbing, thirsty, and with aching muscles, your mind forgets the initial euphoria and you wonder if all of it was a dream, or worse, a crazy, futile aspiration.
It would be so much easier to erase the whole incident, ignore my own needs and put everyone back together, even if you could still see the tape and glue and flaws. Divorce is not something I wished for my children.
The endurance of cleaning out closets and re-purposing rooms provides a kind of strength, a cleansing, and possibly a rebirth. My identity begins to reveal itself in every room, in the pale pink walls, the over-stuffed bookshelves, and the all-white chandelier.
My upward dog gets stronger the more I flow, and I let go of what it should look like, and simply do what feels best for me.
The greatest lesson I’ve learned in life is that my path is not my plan. I can’t hold onto anything. Nothing is mine – not even my own boys. I get to guide them, teach them, and observe them in awe, but the path God has set for them is not up to me. I am a witness to their journey, and hopefully I can honor that position.