(Part One Here)
I was told when I was growing up that I was going probably going to have a heart attack and die before I was 25. I was told I worried too much, I loved too hard, and I cared too much. What’s a child to say to that? So, every year I scoff and laugh.
A few days ago, I turned 33 years old—who knew I’d make it this far? Eight years and counting.
My dear friend and mentor lovingly told me, “You need to get out in nature. Nature will always support you and nourish you. Go outside, be around those lovely flowers you used to love when you were a boy. You were so connected to the earth then. You are everything you’ve needed, you need to realize that.”
I wanted to give myself the time I needed to come undone and come back together. This was truly a return to love.
|
On my most recent trip to India, a loving Swami said to us, “This journey you are taking, you’ve taken before. Let that comfort you, and any heartache you might have.”
Two months ago, I decided I was going to return to India for a month. I didn’t really tell anyone, but in two weeks I was vaccinated, had plane tickets, and simply left, telling only my closest confidants of my whereabouts.
I was exhausted from professional engagements that tested my personal boundaries. For all of the material success I was achieving, I was sorting through a number of heart-breaking experiences that desperately needed to be healed. I wanted to give myself the time I needed to come undone and come back together. This was truly a return to love.
◊♦◊
It was two years ago, two days after Thanksgiving. A time when trees appeared in windows. A time when colored, flashing lights lined the brims of houses. I got on to I-35 in Texas, for one of the loneliest drives I’ve taken in my life. A few minutes into the journey, after a tumultuous weekend, and tear-soaked night, I heard, “I don’t think you are someone I want to spend the rest of my life with,” and I heard it loud and clear.
The words hung in the air, first like ornaments. They dangled there for some time, then they spun around my head. They flew in front of me like those pesky fungus gnats that flock towards decaying matter. I was suddenly very sick, and dizzy.
“Because I don’t know what you are going to do with yourself. But you better do something. Who knows what you will end up becoming in life.”
|
This is isn’t the kind of thing you want to hear from anyone, especially someone you are dating—or at least trying to. When I love, I love completely—whether its romantic or platonic. Maybe I was young, foolish, and naïve for carrying the postcards of romantic love in the portfolio of my mind. But truthfully, I had no big agenda to begin with. I hadn’t reached forever. I hadn’t reached the rest of my life, or our lives. What was this strange gift of winter? How could someone know so soon?
When I told one of my closest friends this story, I’ll never forget the deafening silence. After some moments, with the heart of a child, he slowly asked, “What did you do—how did you survive someone saying such a thing?”
Quite naturally, I cried. Then, I started crying even more because I was crying. The second rush of tears came because of the unearthing of a deep, painful wound. The strange gift of winter would become a chance to heal a broken part of myself.
◊♦◊
I can still remember the day. I was around 8 years old, maybe younger. One day, as I was playing outside, alone—I was in complete bliss. Surrounded by the arms of nature, beneath one of the most unremarkable trees I’d ever seen. As unremarkable as this pillar of nature was, it was enough tree for me, as a young boy. Strong enough for me to climb, yet too weak, or too something or another, to bear any leaves. A very peculiar tree, indeed, like me.
I was often characterized, as being “different from the other boys”—and it still haunts me. There, outside, in full display, unbeknownst to me and passersby, I was in flow, doing yoga. One position after the other, I bent, I moved, I stood, I crumbled, I stood again—a pattern that became the flow of my life. Chakrasana (wheel pose or backbend); Adho Mukha Vrkasana (downwardfacing tree pose or handstand); Hanumanasana (monkey or ‘side split’ pose); Dhanurasana (bow pose).
This poor, country boy, so different from the other boys because of the way he bent and moved his body, the way his heart and mind flocked towards trees and flowers—there I was, channeling an inner yogi, perhaps from lifetimes before now.
After those few hours or so, perhaps frustrated and dismayed, a relative approached me from behind like an apparition. He tossed a baseball and glove at me and quipped “here, take this.” I got up, and I picked up the tools I was given, perhaps to help architect a “better boy” out of me, and a better man someday—because that’s all it takes, right? I looked at him, and laughed, and charmingly asked, “Why I do I need this” before he replied with anger, “Because I don’t know what you are going to do with yourself. But you better do something. Who knows what you will end up becoming in life.”
He said this with his back facing me. I remember the silhouette of his back as it slid behind the screen door. The clash of the cheap metal alloy echoed down the street, then the wooden door closed. I stood there, next to this tree, this very unremarkable tree, not strong enough to bear leaves, but strong enough to stand beside me, and I cried.
◊♦◊
I didn’t realize how hopeless I was after that moment, to become someone. Perhaps this fatalistic view of my humanity drove me to overachieve. Nonetheless, I excelled academically and artistically. So much that I was invited to give a speech in middle school at our graduation. At the end, I slid away my cue cards, and with tears in my eyes shouted, “Good luck, achieve your dreams, and never, ever give up!”
I remember the roar of the crowd. Even my bullies stepped down from their sacred posts in the adolescent kingdom. Perhaps subconsciously, I felt achievement and success would become my remedy, the antidote for what was ailing me, this grave diagnosis I was given at such a tender age.
I was falling in love, again, this time, for good.
|
And so, I did just that. I never gave up. I became incredibly ambitious, led by blind overachievement, underscored by fear of failure and success. When I went into therapy several years ago, I learned of the concept of the ‘hero’ child, and that I was a hallmark example. I graduated high school with honors, medallions, cords, and scholarships. A first-generation college student, I went to a top private college in the Midwest, again graduating with high honors. I studied abroad in Egypt, I learned music, I composed, I took lessons at the Cairo Opera House. First generation international traveler. Following graduation, after struggling a couple of years in the corporate world, my career took off. First generation yuppie.
I saw the world. I sat in fancy boardrooms. I made inflated decisions. I wrote a lot. I talked a lot. I got nominated for things that were important to me, I thought. During this, I made more money than I thought I would make, ever. I got a fancy apartment, put fancy stuff in it. In a very short period, I achieved more than what was expected for a poor, country boy, one so different from the other boys—and it drove me straight into a brick wall.
◊♦◊
But now, here I was in India. Digging up one wound up and discovering another. I was reflecting on the man that I had become, reconciling it with the boy inside of me. I was not suffering from a lack of love or the aftermath of romantic heartbreak. I wasn’t suffering from career fatigue and exasperation. On the deepest level, I was estranged from who I truly was, and I was grateful that I was being guided ‘back home’ in every sense of the phrase, however painful it was. However painful it has been for me.
At the foothills of the Himalayas, and at the place where the Ganga and Him River kissed and held hands, I found a sense of peace and solitude. Finally. I could rest. It wasn’t just about being a yoga teacher. Each morning I woke up, surrounded by the expanse of nature, laying in her loving arms. I was breaking bread with people who were healing in their own ways, as well. It was community, and I needed it. I was connecting, deeply. I was healing, publicly. My heart grew as big as the sky. The marigolds, the hibiscus flowers—even the spiders, the many, many spiders. The creepy crawling things. The birds singing and chirping outside of my door, the endless magic of this gorgeous earth, and her wonder and her splendor. I was falling in love, again, this time, for good.
Near the conclusion of my stay in India, before I left for Thailand, the loving Swami who visited each day continued to pour out his heart. He inspired me. “There is nothing to become in this life. You are everything you are, have been, and ever will be. Spending time in nature will remind you of this. Why do you think you have all come here? She will reveal her secrets, when you are ready. You’ve heard this before.”
It was true. I had. And while I might not be there—this is a start and look forward to it.
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash