I'm awash in big decisions these days, so many that I often have a hard time picking the small things, like which Martha Beck book to re-read (again) or which flavor of tea to start my morning with.
Peaches or cantaloupe?
(the real decisions overshadow these simple little things).
My yoga mat has zero answers for me. It just sits there on the floor, the same as it did yesterday. No shifty shadows with secret messages. Nothing.
Wouldn't it be great if I could do sixteen downward facing dogs, or one hundred kundalini kriyas, or a tree pose balanced on some giant rocks and allow the answers to drift down or bubble up? Do you think a trap door might open if I chant the Adi Shakti 108 times, or aliens might catch my drift as I backbend willy-nilly at Garden of the Gods?
I think I'd have more luck asking the cantaloupe.
Yoga doesn't have answers, it has questions. Reminders. Little nuggets like the safety label on the mattress and the lid of my coffee cup.
Did you turn off the TV?
Did you forget that the cantaloupe is more you than the reflection in the mirror?
Are you hoping this will never change?
What are you running from?
Is the fear worth your time?
Did you forget that the cantaloupe is more you than the reflection in the mirror?
Are you hoping this will never change?
What are you running from?
Is the fear worth your time?
Like any good teacher, it doesn't tell you what to do. It asks you what to do.
Does my fear pass this test?
Does yours?
No comments:
Post a Comment