I'm not sure exactly what I mean by this one. It's a thought that came to me during yoga practice yesterday. More and more, I've become drawn to a slow, steady practice--for those who know me, a huge leap from my fiery and fast Ashtanga practice. This new practice is no less fierce (indeed, I find myself working way harder these days), but it is more meditative. For so many years I've been running and hanging onto that heavy handle that, for some reason, I believe I must carry or the world will cease to function. Finally, for my own sake, I had to put it down.
I want to say that the relief from putting it down, from slowing down, is enormous; I'm sure must be. But what struck me most is the unexpected grief--this mourning of... what? Perceived self-control? Or, more deeply, perceived sense of self? If I wasn't this person I've been, and have to find this new path for my own well-being, then what have I lost? Who have I lost? I'm not sure exactly, but I've definitely been mourning her.
And then yesterday, in opening meditation, it hit me. When I changed this relationship to myself, I'd broken my own heart. I'm not sure I can put it any other way, but it's both absolutely, heart-wrenchingly sad, and also absolutely, heart-wrenchingly lovely. Like a good love story should be, really.
So, there it is. Break your own heart, petals, and come out the other side a little worse for wear, perhaps, but infinitely braver, infinitely more attuned, infinitely more compassionate with yourself and the beings who, thankfully, bump up against you in this life.