The sun was shining as I floated out onto the sidewalk after teaching my 9 am Friday class. I’ve had this time slot for a decade, giving me a sense of home. I know these people. I know their stories, I know their heartbreaks, and they know mine. It’s safe and I feel an easy freedom in that hour. We wish each other excited Byeeee’s! And enjoy your weekends! And my heart feels full. The smile on my face feels like the most natural thing in the world. I’d done what I’m sure I’m meant to be doing, in a room full of people who see me and appreciate me, just as I am.
I roll down all the windows as I turn onto Lombard Street. The bell of the firetruck rings out clearly, and for the first time, I am fully present to how much I love that sound. It’s like I’m hearing sounds of the city from another era. I’m nostalgic for a time I never knew. I imagine men strolling down the street in suits instead of polo shirts and tech-branded puffer vests. The women are wearing beautiful dresses instead of Lululemon leggings. Although the women also have a lot less freedom and autonomy, for the sake of the daydream, let’s just focus on the fits. Everyone is simply dashing.
It’s clear skies and bright sunshine! I remember my intention. Focus on the good! I slide my sunglasses on and turn up my music. God, I love this weather. I accelerate onto the highway, and there it is— the Golden Gate Bridge. I have committed myself to admiring this commute. I practice immersing myself in my good fortune. People travel from all over to see this view, and this is what you get to look at on your way home. Really look. But these lanes are merging, so also, drive.
As I round the curve of my exit, I get one last peak of the bridge between the eucalyptus trees before I descend into the tunnel to cross back over Golden Gate Park and towards the Sunset.
It’s technically work hours, but people are scattered all around. I take a deep breath and think about how I love seeing more people out. Aw, look at those two, out for a run. Sounds terrible, I think, and quickly add, but to each their own!
I hit a string of green lights on Park Presido. I’ll make it home to my babies in record time. I am thrilled at how life is presenting itself today.
And I love that I am noticing more of what I love. Maybe I’m changing…
It’s 2013, I’m sitting in a very well-attended 300-hour teacher training. The main teacher makes his entrance, and everyone gets hearts in their eyes. He soaks up their salivating energy, and I can feel myself recoil. No hearts in my eyes—maybe some thumbs up—but not hearts.
I chose to take this teacher’s training for logistical reasons. I wanted the name recognition on my yoga resume. When I told my parents that I wanted to teach as a career, they said, “Well, you better find the Harvard of teacher trainings in SF and take it.” That seemed like sound advice, so I sought him out. I had only ever taken one of his classes before and thought, sure, this is fun. I can do this.
The downside was that his style—Bhakti, the yoga of devotion—had a lot of chanting, and that is decidedly not for me (but to each their own!).
Every morning, after his grand entrance, we would sit in what some thought to be a too-close-for-comfort group before him. He begins to beat his drum and chant. The jubilant chorus joins right in. Except for me.
I’m smiling, nodding, mouthing the few words I know. I’m even swaying to demonstrate approval and cover my discomfort. After a few days of this, though, the teacher catches on. He thought he was seeing a person afraid of using their voice, and he wasn’t wrong. I was, and sometimes, still am. But really, I just didn’t want to chant.
He stopped everyone and made me sing all alone. I thought I was having a heart attack. I couldn’t catch a full breath, never mind sing. I managed to hurry and get through it, but I assure you, it didn’t have some Grinch-growing-heart effect.
There was a lot of flowery kind of language, and the word love was uttered to a degree that, to me, made it lose some meaning. At this time, I only ever told my family I loved them. When someone told me they loved me, I would think, You are not my blood relative, why are you saying this to me? Love was a heavy word. It came with permanence. How could I say this to you if I didn’t know for sure you’d never leave me?
Another thing that threw me was the hugs. Everyone was always hugging! I just saw you before lunch—why on earth are you hugging me? Clearly, not a hugger. All of this felt so suspect. I found them to be insincere. How is there so much preaching about loving and all this hugging, and yet I am over here feeling nothing? Well, not nothing—I was feeling something, but it was a stark contrast to what they were.
I don’t know that I’m a negative person, but I do tend to notice the darkness with ease. Complaints come on easy, and I’ve had to train myself not to name every single one. And if I am going to name one, I’m going to make it funny. Maybe that’s why I shrink from the love and hugs. Maybe I think they’re boring. Or at the very least, they’re just not funny. It’s mushy. And mushy is fine, I guess? But I’d rather be funny.
Is that a defense mechanism? Is that my East Coast upbringing? Maybe it’s just foreign, and that’s why it feels false.
I find myself most comfortable around someone whose darkness I can easily sense. Someone I find to be all light and airy feels like an immediate no. I can enjoy them, but I will not grow close to them. I will match their light and airy, and it will be a show, not a connection. What is that? Jealousy? Fear of judgment? Intimacy issues? (Definitely! Girl, yes.)
On the last day of the training, the teacher asks us to go around the circle and say one word we are feeling after these ten days together. He looks directly at me and quickly adds, “Don’t be clever. Be honest.” It nearly knocks me over. Shit, maybe he did see me.
We go around the circle, and it finally gets to me. Like many others, I say, “Grateful.” A word I was not accustomed to saying out loud.
So, maybe the moral of the story is that I’m just an ungrateful bitch and that’s what has made it hard to connect to the love and the light and the hugging and the chanting. Perhaps there’s an air of never enough that has been impeding my enjoyment of what’s here and what’s really good.
It could also be good old-fashioned fear. Gratitude requires presence, and I am accustomed to fleeing—not physically, but mentally. My parents always told me I was “out to lunch.” Stuck in daydreams. And they were right. I like it there. It’s safe.
I was on our first call with my current mentorship group last month, and they were all talking about why they decided to do this program. They said wonderfully kind things about me, and as they did, I was pinching my arm just out of the frame. When they were done, I said, as if this was completely normal, “Thank you all for your incredibly kind reflections. I’m working hard on receiving love and being present for it. You know how when someone is saying things about you that are far too kind for your own comfort, so you pinch yourself to redirect some of the discomfort?” I was met with wide eyes of horror. They all shook their heads and said, “No. I do not do that.” I laughed, “Oh! Okay. Well, anyways. Thanks for the kind words, and I will work on the pinching!”
I suppose if I were my own therapist, I might suggest that I have confused love with pain. Love can’t be free and spontaneous, because I’ve made it too dense and obligatory. Hugs can’t be sincere because everything has to be a joke, or I run the risk of really getting hurt. Complaints come easily because they keep people at arm’s length. They keep love, that I’m not sure I’m worthy of, at arm’s length.
I’m almost home now, driving down 19th Ave. There’s a sweet flower stand on the side of the road. I see a man hurriedly stuffing cash into the owner’s hand. He grabs the flowers and takes off in a sprint. Not a jog, but a full-out sprint. He’s got a huge grin on his face, and the big bouquet bounces with every leap. The me that sat in the training 12 years ago would have rolled my eyes. Maybe thought he was hurrying to fix some grand fuck up. But not this giddy bitch that writes to you today. I felt my body swell at the sight. I love that he is in a hurry to deliver this gift to its recipient, and I don’t dabble in a dark story to diminish it. I want to be him. If I must hurry through anything, may it be rushing to make your life more lovely.
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Loving these voice overs 😭😭 you’re the best
Hearing your authentic voice is the reading of this is so soothing.