Meeting Myself

It’s a cool, still day. Sun made some attempts at appearing this morning, but was overtaken by various types of clouds. There’s the dull grey haze, smearing over most parts of the sky, but also the depth provided by layers of clouds covering layers of mountains as they stand behind one another. That mountain is visible. This one behind has a patch of cloud obscuring it. That other one down the valley is only making itself known in faint outline. There’s mystery here that sun would be oblivious to.

The person who said you can never go home has never considered home to be an ashram.

That’s where I am now. I’m home.

I always loved the Ashram when it’s cloudy. Another reminder to bring my focus inward, to let go of external concerns.

Rocks press into rocks under my feet and I’m at the lakeshore, staring at my favourite mountain. It’s the one that’s visible, jutting out where the lake takes a quick turn to make the West Arm. The first day of spring. And Swami Radha’s birthday. There are many reasons to celebrate.

Sections of the sky release their interlacing of cloud to create a patchwork of light and dark above the water. I’ve seen this before. No, not this exactly, but something like it. I’ve seen this person, standing on this beach looking at this lake. Only sometimes she’s roaring with fire, throwing in rocks to get it out. Sometimes she’s singing, deep in reverence. She’s got a guitar in her lap or a harmonium at her knees and she’s singing, oh Lord is she singing. She’s hoping that the breath her voice is carried on will carry her, too. I’ve seen her too in calm stillness. With a notebook and pen, or with nothing at all. Just there, beside the lake.

Today all these selves were there with me. Eight years of her, all rolling into one, into this precious moment. Such a funny thing, place. Is there a way I can be all these people all at once and still be who I am now?

Believe me, I’ve tried to go home. I’ve been to Alberta, where the wind rushes over shoots of wheat as desperate in its rush East as I am for something to cling onto. The roads are too wide there. The cars leave too much space between them like an invisible force. I try to enter into the spaces I find. In brother’s homes or long-forgotten favourite coffee shops. Everything’s different; I am seeing with new eyes and those wide streets look strange to me now. Something just doesn’t quite fit in the space.

An ashram for a home has none of those concerns. It has its own similitudes and constant flux of change just like me. No pigeonholing me into past versions of myself or expecting I’ll be anywhere but where I am. I’m grateful for the freedom in that.

I stood on that pebbled shore as wave after wave of previous selves I’ve been washed over me. I was surprised. I may not be those selves anymore, not held to their limiting beliefs and crippling concepts, but they’re still a part of me.

Smooth and dark like thick chocolate the lake offers itself as an example. I’ll rest into its stillness that resides in me. I’ll gather all my selves in sacred ceremony and hear them out. I’ll step forward as the person I am now, choosing the best qualities of each to carry me on.