It’s been kind of a hectic week and I’ve been thinking a lot about the top 5 best traits of sober (and by this I mean those digging for a spiritual path) people, none of which I technically possess without some serious higher power intervention.
Curiosity is by far taking the #1 spot right now. But I can’t promise that it won’t look like it looks in the picture. And because it sometimes looks like it looks in the picture, I really try to avoid it at all costs. I often don’t even ask people, how are you? This is mainly because I’m afraid you’ll tell me. And then I’ll feel obligated in some way to response to what you’re telling me, and that just feels unnecessary and awkward. My solution for realizing (many years ago) that I have no effing idea what you should do, was to stop asking what was wrong with you.
In spite of how it might appear, it’s not a “I’m a bitch so I don’t give a damn about how you are” but it’s more like a “ewww…let’s not get too close” kind of thing. Feel me? Because I am like this, it didn’t even phase me when I was first dating JM and he was like, don’t touch my face. Uhhh…ok, whatever. Dealbreaker. Face touched. Happily ever after. And I think we’re both good with how it turned out. But that doesn’t change the fact that when you get close, it gets sticky sometimes. Lemme explain (and for those of you familiar with some of my explanations…I apoligize in advance.)
So I was in yoga, and I was in yadapadastrassana or whatever pose it was we were doing at the time…
Side note: I don’t think everyone can be good at yoga. This philosophy that yoga teachers like to spew in their drooliest voice that if you just keep doing the practice without expectation, you will one day magically twist your shoulders under your ass without even thinking about it, is, in my humble opinion, BS. There I said it.
Ok, so I was in yoga, well, to be exact, yoga hadn’t started yet. I was the first one in the room for the 8 a.m. yoga class, when two mid 50s men cruise in and start setting up their mats. They whip their Jade mats around like they own the place. They’re shaking out their towels and just chatting it up about Steve Jobs and whether he was a genius–clearly, the one says, he was a genius– or just a type A asshole who turned people to mush beneath his creative uhhhh, passion. And I’m (pre-class) laying on my mat with my eyes closed and not letting it get to me AT ALL.
Because I have been practicing my sitting mediation diligently. I’ve been sitting every day. I can just let their voices roll through my brain and watch them go by like a cloud. Until my inner voice becomes a thud in my head and my body heats up like it’s sitting under a palm tree in Florida in August (ok, in all fairness, that could have been because it was a HOT yoga class) and that peaceful cloud turns fierce and dark and stormy and the next thing you know, it not bothering me at all has turned into, why don’t you shut the eff up?
Now at this point, there are few choices remaining in the day. As Pema says, I’m in Shenpa (more on this later) —basically I’m hooked. ANd like a fish with that hook sticking into its flesh, I’m kind of in a little bit of a jam. And I can run from that. I can wiggle and squirm. I can blame it on the absolute audacity of other people to not live by my moral code (hello Emily Post) or, I can get curious. I can detach for a moment from the storyline I’m telling and I can look at how interesting it is that something as simple as a few voices could turn a person from a pile of mush to a volcano in a matter of minutes. Curiosity. I can’t promise it won’t look like the picture, but…I can promise what you find will amaze you.