I changed my mind. Women are good at that, aren’t we? I spent a brief 12 hours at the yoga fest and drove home at the end of the night. Torrential rains, a muddy parking lot, a new car, and port-o-potty’s are not a good combo. Besides, I had my fill of exploring the depths of my soul. I wanted to come home.
I had a wonderful experience, and I’m so glad I did that for myself. It reminded me that I need to do more activities that I love. We both do. As I write this, I’m, well, writing (which I love), and Nick is taking apart his RC truck and installing new shocks (which is fun for him, somehow). I mention this because we are taking time to do things we enjoy, just not often, and not epic.
As promised, I am beginning to publish short essays. In time, they will have their own home on the website, but for now, I’ll include them within the dated blog entries. Below is just a spoonful from my experience at the yoga festival yesterday.
12 Hours at a Yoga Festival
I don’t wear a turban. Due to my blatant turban-less-ness, I was outnumbered and out-of-place practicing Kundalini yoga at the Sat Nam Fest this weekend. (Sat Nam rhymes with hot mom.) The air was frigid in Joshua Tree. Suddenly wearing a turban seemed desirable, almost essential. The brewing storm clouds gave way to a ferociously chilly breeze, and eventually rain, which kept hundreds of festival-going yogi’s seeking shelter in a giant tent.
I knew no one, and actively participated in my nobody-knowing-ness. I wandered alone, I dined alone, and I yoga’d alone. I was basking in aloneness, contently sitting within 1 foot of people on either side, so close I could recognize what they ate for lunch. I uttered not a word, and shared not a glance. One man sat so close to me that I knew which nostril he was using to innocently serenade me with a tender little nostril-lullaby. The lack of obligation to pass the time with incessant chatter was refreshing to me. Certainly, there was ample chitchat all around; the tent hummed, but I sat in silence.
My body was still, but my mind jutted back and forth to thoughts of my Dad’s health, of the Dalai Lama’s gambling problem, and of the woman in front of me who shouldn’t wear white pants. I could compose a literary trilogy on women at this festival who shouldn’t wear white pants, but I won’t, mainly because that’s mean, and secondly because they are secure in their sense of self and don’t care what others think. The best part of them not caring was that while there, I didn’t have to care either. My 12 hours in Joshua Tree were freeing in a self exploratory, could’ve-gotten-away-with-white-pants kind of way.
Each Breath of Fire I engaged in cleansed my heart of suffering. Every mantra I chanted vibrated my energy to the moon. Each conscious moment with my eyes closed, I came closer to understanding why I was there.
I wasn’t there for the yoga (good thing, since we didn’t do much of it). I was there to be gently guided into the depths of my being. Yesterday I spent 12 healing hours by myself immersed into the repetitive rhythms of chant and etherial melodies. Today I emerged freshly motivated and ready to save the world.
If you’re still wondering about the Dalai Lama’s gambling problem, it’s nothing too serious, he just loves Tibet.