I haven't written lately because I've been too busy a) doing yoga pushups and b) figuring out what to do with my life.
It's about four thirty in the morning. It's my favorite time of day. The refrigerator hums noisily and the light above what resembles an alien from Star Wars (but is probably just a juicer) seems rather peeved about being turned on at this hour --
-- but the rest is quiet.
Quiet enough to hear my muscles screaming from six hours of handstands and pushups after nearly a month of inactivity.
Quiet enough to hear the voices in my head whispering that I have no idea what I'm doing with my life (and that I should probably be more worried about this).
Quiet enough to hear the pounding of my heart that's doing its best to convince me that I can't do this anymore.
It isn't the pounding of someone with heavy boots coming home from work. Thump, thump, thumping steadily up the stairs. Key turns the lock in the door. Creak. Thump, thump, thumping to the kitchen. Puts the kettle on.
It isn't the pounding of someone with flip-flops casually strolling to the beach. Flip-flop, flip-flop, flip-flop leisurely along the shore. Stillness. Breezes. Sand and warmth. Flip-flop, flip-flop, flip-flop to meet friends with colorful umbrellas and picnics on excessively large towels.
It's the pounding of someone who feels hopelessly lost. Stomp, stomp, pause. Backtrack. Shuffle, shuffle, stomp. Pause. Turn. Pause. Sit. Stand. Thump, thump, thump.
It's okay to be lost. This is where life happens. If I knew exactly where I was going, I wouldn't be so aware of everything else. It would be like driving to the supermarket -- you get in the car, you get out of the car, but you somehow forget everything that happens in between. Being lost teaches me how to listen. Being lost helps me value the in between.
Being lost teaches me that there is no in between.
Thump, thump, pause.
Today is my third day of acro yoga training. The last two days have been extremely difficult for me -- emotionally, physically and mentally.
This hitchhiking adventure has felt like a marathon. An exhausting, fabulously rewarding, transformational adventure, but an experience that has left me more than a little tired.
Instead of rewarding myself with a gigantic bar of chocolate and a massage at the finish line, I somehow thought it would be a grand idea to stumble off to bootcamp.
Because I'm like that.
Traveling in this manner emphasizes just about everything I struggle with.
I don't wear makeup anymore. I'm experimenting with not shaving and not caring about clothes.
Letting go of vanity and whatnot.
But this past month went beyond letting go of vanity. It went beyond letting go of shame.
Imagine a new kind of makeup. Its unique selling point isn't that it conceals your imperfections. No, this makeup highlights them.
Bigger, bolder, brighter flaws.
I've been wearing this makeup for a month. It reveals my fears and conceals my strengths. It emphasizes my doubts and minimizes any sense of surety.
My strengths lie in planning. In teaching yoga. In healing through thai massage. In hugging (lots and lots of hugging). In making houses smell like morning. In checking things off lists. In randomly creating fun, artistic projects and baking gluten-free brownies with candied ginger and chili.
This short (but endless) chapter of my life included hardly any of the above.
My weaknesses lie in living spontaneously. In moving quickly. In not having lists. In not having bus tickets that guarantee I'll arrive at my destination at four in the afternoon where my host can meet me.
Guess what this short (but endless) chapter of my life did include?
I walked to the yoga immersion early the first day. I sat outside the studio and absentmindedly watched sticks floating down the river. I noticed a short, fat stick with pointed edges wildly circling as the current carried it downriver.
I'm that stick. I'm totally that stick. I'm dizzy and disoriented from being tossed about, but I need to realize that even though my life has no stability, I'm still floating downriver.
Somehow.
The immersion started at nine. The thirty attending yogis and yoginis are slender, lithe, well-trained athletes who have very advanced practices. Most of them wear expensive (for me, anyway) leggings and hippie shirts and float through the complex routines with enviable ease.
I nearly broke down after failing, flailing in a handstand.
It's unpleasant but not entirely demoralizing to be bad at what you're bad at.
Being bad at what you're good at is so much more difficult.
This training is another variety of the magic, revealing makeup. The prior palette emphasized the "flaws" found in my fears.
This one emphasizes the flaws found in my strengths.
I found myself more resistant to constructive criticism than ever before.
"Tighten your legs!"
My legs ARE tight. What's she going on about?
"Arms to ears!"
That's not how I was trained...
"Lift her up! Lift, lift, lift!"
I can't lift from this angle. It would be much better if he lowered his knees more and she engaged her core more and --
I walked the five km through drab urban buildings to my host's apartment outside the city center, discouraged and angry at myself.
What I'm feeling right now is everything against what yoga means to me. Yoga means awareness, mindfulness, playfulness, ease. It means exploration. It means realizing that you are a new person with a new body in every moment and learning how to love the new person and body best. It means being a beginner.
I'm never going to learn if I can't let go of my need to be "good".
Perhaps I can change the way I see and label what I do so that my sense of worth isn't so profoundly affected. Experiment with eliminating the words "good" and "bad" from my vocabulary. I'm not good at yoga. Yoga is simply something I do. I'm not bad with directions. Directions are simply more... interactive for me. If I let go of "good" and "bad", perhaps I'll be more open to learning and less vulnerable to self-loathing.
Yes. Happening. I'm Aimee. I'm not good or bad at anything. I live life and do stuff and float down the river like the merry-go-round stick.
Tessa is leaving this morning. Our goal was to hitchhike until we didn't want to hitchhike anymore, and I suppose we're at that place. My kiwi is sick and tired and desperate for her English boyfriend, her French babies (she worked as a nanny in the alps all winter) and baguettes. She fantasizes about hibernating for two weeks, only waking up occasionally to nibble some baguette and cuddle her boyfriend.
It'll be strange to travel solo again. I'm not sure what I'll do without her. I don't feel comfortable hitchhiking alone. I don't have enough money to buy expensive train tickets and there aren't a lot of cheap flights left. Oy. I don't have any volunteer work lined up. Umm... I'll start in Vienna. I'll get there by bus. Then I'll use blablacar to get to southern Austria to visit Csaba's friend in the mountains.
I thought about the merry-go-round stick.
Then we'll see, I suppose. Something is bound to happen.
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