After my yoga teacher training I was a gentle mess. The transition back to the big, wide-open world felt large and scary. I was protective of myself and my practice. I didn’t know how to share it, integrate it into life and work around it. I fled to the safe haven of a dear friend in Santa Cruz. Bless her. Here I was given an ocean front home to use as a half-way house. Here I stayed, and slept and breathed. And barely left the house.
I practiced. I read my books. I called loved ones I’d neglected for the month. I told them I didn’t know where to go. I fueled up on dreams of what I wanted and how it would look. I imagined a quaint home with a large kitchen, a dirt road, a garden, a barn. I saw myself cooking and healing and sharing.
An afternoon jaunt to the grocery store in Santa Cruz left me feeling displaced. I had no home, no plan, only a faint idea of a direction, North.
I pushed my shopping cart out of the store feeling dejected. All I want is a kitchen to cook beautiful food in, I thought. And then I stopped. My shopping cart halfway to the car. And laughed, out loud, at myself. I HAD what I wanted. I was pushing a cart full of beautiful, hearty, local food out to my car where I would drive back to a stunning beach home, with a sun-lit kitchen to cook myself a delicious meal. I smiled at the irony. At how oblivious a young yogi I could be.
That if I can step back and really realize what my life looks like, I often already have what I want. Sometimes it looks different, but it feels the same.