I’m sitting in the air-conditioned library. It’s only about 64 today which, as I learn how to read Fahrenheit, my body tells me is actually quite cool. Yet the air-conditioning is nicely welcomed in the thick humidity of a Maine Summer. Yes, it’s summer now, having reached the June 21st mark with rushing speed. What is it about time that seems to continue to rush forward leaving me unawares? It’s what lets me linger in bed ages after an hour that I would feel good about having got up at. Sure, I can blame the wet and the cold, but tenting in the woods through rain or not, I can still do myself the decency of getting out of bed at a decent hour to enjoy my day. Yet how I am still able to do exactly that. I wander down the hill, up the driveway, and towards the YMCA. Such a state-of-the-art building overlooking a scape of Lily Pond. This is the other side of Lily Pond now. I’ve moved to a place in the woods with the feeling of taking things one day at a time. Yes, the boat is happening, and it’s happening in a way that makes sense. (Mosquitos don’t make sense. Lord grant me patience with these winged creatures, with their counterparts crawling near my food.)
At the Y I’m looking for yoga. I’m also looking for plumbing and the potential of a sauna or hot tub but mainly I’m looking for yoga. Ok, so what is yoga? Is it in an 80 degree room? (about 26? Have patience with me, I’m learning.) Is it Vinyasa or Yin? Pay-as-you-can or 3H0? (Or is it 3HO?).
Perhaps it is these questions, this part of my mind that allows itself to come up with these questions, that speaks to the heart of what yoga it. I continually have this urge to rid myself of all these underlying concepts and ideas that seems to have insipidly creeped into my consciousness unbeknownst to myself. I currently have all of my worldly possessions widely distributed throughout the continent. There are things in my parent’s, brother’s, and friend’s houses in Alberta, things in the spare room of the trailer in the Kootenays, and things in the garage on Bayview Street. When I’m in one of these areas I usually go through these things, hunting for some treasure or another (in fact I’ll go to Bayview Street later today, looking for my soap). I keep all of these things, these reminders that perhaps ones day I be settled down in one place long enough to have things like shelves and walls to affix them to. What is this “settled down” business? Ah! More questions! Perfect! I’m succeeding at my definition of a practicing yogin.
The concept I can questions is that I will, one day, settle down. This gypsy life is so decidedly lovely. It hints at the possibility of creative happenings that root down into nourishing earth and allow for flowering after careful tending. Hints of whispers in my ear She lets me in on: Offer Satsangs, Teach Hatha Yoga in the park, Start Kundalini reflection classes. Ah yes, I will heed these whispers and I know they won’t interfere with my gypsy life but rather will enhance it. Is that what is means to settle down? To not think that I’m falling into this trap of a concept that I’ve previously defined as settling down that lacks any real life experience but to simply be present with what is happening in my internal landscape and allow it to flow out of me in a cohesive expanse of external manifestations? Yes, that seems a much more real way to live life. And a much more satisfying one at that.
These questions are what nourish me on my path of yoga, they are what allow me to find crack and crevice of those concepts and patterns I wish to shed. At the Y I find yoga classes. Through my journey there, I find more questions. I also find answers to some questions which, admittedly, are usually in the form of more questions. I am, after all, a Yasodhara Yogi.