ON COMING HOME
Sometimes you leave a place because it has wronged you. It broke your heart. It got too busy to see you often. It constantly pushed at your back to make more money, buy more things, put more activities on the calendar. So you think: Maybe I should leave this place.
You think this, but it’s not an easy thought to act on. You wrestle with the decision, day in day out for months. Even when your beloved city house is about to go under contract because you receive $100k over-asking in a pre-boom market, you wrestle with that decision.
Day in. Day out. Should you, shouldn’t you. Should you. Shouldn’t you. Should you?
The only place where it feels you’re not wrestling with that decision is on your yoga mat. It’s probably not your mat itself that eases the wrestling, but your amazing, powerful, kind, spiritually gifted yoga teacher.
Under her soothing words you can stop the wrestling for a little and it becomes clear. You should leave the place that wronged you and go to a place that hasn’t. Somewhere green perhaps. Somewhere with farms and cows and pigs and sheep. Somewhere with community. Somewhere where your son can go to public school and you won’t feel the pushing at your back. But not too far from the beloved city where people are known to leave their hearts. No. Not too far.
The wrestling continues long after you’ve signed on dotted lines to exchange the old house for a new one. Long after you’ve packed up your belongings and put them on a truck with cute Irish dudes. Long after you’ve taken your belongings off the truck, reluctantly said goodbye to the cute Irish dudes — in particular one nicknamed Rosie — and unpacked the very same belongings. Yes. It continues long after that.
Three years later it seems the wrestling continues. Not always. But often. Should you have left the place that wronged you? That broke your heart. That got too busy to see you often. That constantly pushed at your back to make more money, buy more things, put more activities on the calendar. Should you have left it?
Then one day you return to the city to attend a farewell yoga class with your beloved teacher. She has to go on a forced hiatus because the city where people are known to leave their hearts has gotten too popular, the rents too crazy for souls who want to run yoga studios.
You arrive early and sit on your yoga mat for almost an hour. The noise crescendos as close to 160 people arrive. Mats are spaced a half an inch apart. The music, the din of chatter, the anticipation of waiting for your yoga teacher to start the class, the wane of the anticipation as the minutes tick by. You start to wonder. Should I have come? She walks in quietly. Sits. Invites you to chant and breathe and move.
She talks much of change, of what you know, what you don’t. You move through heated asanas. Sometimes it seems there is not enough oxygen in the room. And then BOOM it hits you. You have come home. Home is here. Being led by her. With this community. The wrestling can stop.
Home is here.
Being led by her.
With this community.
The wrestling can stop. You are home.