The Road To Nowhere
A couple of weeks ago, at Kripalu, I rediscovered the labyrinth. I didn’t realize that unlike a maze, which is a puzzle where you must find the exit, a labyrinth is meant to lead you down one singular path in a circuitous fashion, only to return you right back down the same path you came from. The road to nowhere. And everywhere. I was surprised at my own relief to not have to succeed or win or really even do anything, apart from putting one foot in front of the other. I took off my sandals bringing the souls of my feet in contact with the damp grass and stepped under the gate’s threshold. It felt like the entryway into another dimension. I’ve always loved moving meditations. The sign recommends setting an intention. I closed my eyes. I’ve never felt capable of setting intentions. My vision feels clumsiest when aimed at the future. It seems I never can or want to pitch a stake in it. The word intention in Sanskrit, sankalpa, can be translated to ‘becoming one with’. So I did what I do when grappling with this conundrum, I asked if I could become one with whatever lay through the gate. A form of shapeshifting.
And as I stepped in, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, feeling the nuance in every step, it was marvelous, the way the walking in rambling circles and spirals amidst the pointy pine trees drew me in on myself. The trees speaking to me in the wind. As I walked, I felt myself meet myself in a very ancient kind of way, I was catching up to myself. For a long period of sustained time I wasn’t going anywhere, my mind wasn’t going anywhere, I was just right there. The road was the adventure, and it was blissful. I could smell everything, hear everything, feel the heat and sweat and air moving, and out of the corner of my eye, I could appreciate the way in which Sarah came and went next to me on her own journey, the path we shared and which I was following which was also my own.
At the center of Kripalu’s labyrinth lives a perfectly weathered laughing buddha laden with unassuming offerings: rocks, flowers, small earthly things. When there are no things to give, the earth still offers a bounty of tiny miracles that could be missed otherwise.
Then last week, as I ambled out of the gorgeous, light-drenched studio at St. Mark's, after teaching my one in-person class of the week, with nowhere to rush to or be, after someone I adore who used to take class with me ten years ago surprised me, bringing back a flood of memories, I realized I was still in the labyrinth, deepening my practice and the art of going nowhere. Yet being here. Heading right back down the same path I had started with more absorption, yet still in absolute wonder of how it all unfolds.
You know, my first 14 years of teaching were spent commuting—roughly six hours a day. No joke. Teaching anywhere from 18-25 classes a week all at different studios. During the pandemic I was one of the lucky ones and that changed. But when the pandemic struck, I was ragged, beyond a pulp, caught in a bit of a hamster wheel with no other option or job prospects in sight. Other than own a yoga studio, I had hit the ceiling of what I could do. And though the pandemic was overwhelming for sure in lots of ways, and still can be, it was also the physical break I really really needed in order to catch up to myself.
Your support these past 17 years (truly, for some of you), and especially through the pandemic, has meant that I now have more choice in how my life looks. Which means I also have more to offer. The book feels like a big catalyst. And as the tide pulls back filling the wave before it pounces, I want to thank you, you gave me that time through your support, to make it happen. As the launch gets closer, it’s as if I’m currently tucked away into this really magical moment in my life, one of deep presence inside myself as well as outside myself. As Hamlet says, “the readiness is all.” And I feel ready. So thank you for being in this labyrinth with me. I can’t wait to experience the twists and turns this new path takes us on together and am forever grateful.
I know working on the book meant I had to stop writing actual blog posts, so consider this, after many moons, the return of The Dharma Blog.
