The stillness has come. I was searching, and I think I found it. I have fallen in love with Yoga. The practice, the history, the philosophy and the sanskrit. I want to bundle it up and call it my own. This is my path. This is how I’m going to make a difference.
I spent four months schleppin’ my shit around Indonesia searching for something greater. I found it in the people, the music, nature and a yoga studio. With a 30 pound bag and Lonely Planet in hand, I set upon a journey to find The Truth.
After two years in the high tech world of South Korea, I was ready to fully embrace the island life. A place where cable and internet are considered luxuries and beer is the most expensive thing on the menu. It was easy to unplug and disconnect from the outside world, which was a welcome change which slowed me down, allowing time to sit and breathe and think.
I was happy. I drank less, read more and even gave up meat.
~Fast forward to my return~
I’m hungover again. Did Indo even happen? I’m right back to drinking, smoking and gossiping with friends. Where is the yoga?
p.s. what is Bieber Fever?
Coming home I was excited to share my experiences, what I’d learned and what I’d grown to love.
I learned this: no one cares.
Conversations quickly turned to drunken escapades from the weekend before and teaching me how to fist pump Jersey Shore style. There was no place for stories of learning and growth. No one wanted to hear about that one time, when for just a minute, my mind was free.
I became annoyed with myself for understanding the native tongue. Being slapped in the face by the mindless banter that fills the streets; missing the days when I could walk through the hoods not understanding a word of it, imagining that the conversations surrounding me were deep and meaningful and not about which Kardashian is the hottest. (Besides, it’s Kourtney, right?)
Digging my time alone, I would read back through my journal and browse through my photos trying desperately to reconnect to that girl who once wrote that she had “found her path.” But then I get sidetracked while Katy Perry blared on the radio and Jennifer Aniston’s face everywhere. I was losing myself.
So what do I do? Wave the yoga sutras in everyone’s face? Impart on others what little wisdom has shed it’s light on my world? No. I crack a beer, scarf a burger and light a smoke. I am, after all, home.
Weeks went by and then months. It’s now November, and I look out my window to a skyline of barren trees. Where the hell did my summer go?
I had plans of attending classes, diving into the gita, soaking up the sun and breathing in the truth. I got lost in it all. And as much as I’d like to place the blame elsewhere, the reality is this: I’m a slut for TV, am easily distracted by anything flashy and I have a serious weakness for cheap bottles of wine.
I’ve developed somewhat of a fascination with what I’ve come home to. Shorter skirts on younger girls, a reality TV show for every affliction, and number one hits talking about strangers in your bed.
Talent shows dominate prime time, and don’t get me wrong, I dig a four-year-old child who can pop-and-lock with the best of them. But how about a young mother, balancing a basket of pineapples on her head, a baby in one arm and the hand of a child in the other, selling her goods to her brothers and sisters from sun up until sun down to go home and feed her family. There is the talent.
It’s a simpler life based on love and respect and community, a place where the only idols that are spoken of are those of the temples. It’s a place that nourishes growth and reflection.
Yes, in the words of Tina Fey, “I want to go (back) to there”.
And as for the blame, I’ve changed my mind. Justin Bieber stole my summer.
hot on elephant
July’s Full Moon in Capricorn: The Heart wants what it Wants. How to Love a Woman who Scares You. Our Soulmates are Rarely Who We Expect. The 4 Stages of a Good Divorce. I Still Think of You. Men, Let’s Stop Fooling Ourselves: Size Matters. Reading This Takes Guts. To the One Who Tried to Break Me. An Open Letter to the Fixers. How your Stored Memories in the Amygdala can lead to PTSD.