The Ebb Is A Hole In Which You Can Swim 4/4/18
The eggs went into one basket for a while because other baskets were carried away and that made sense. Three in-home classes a week for the man in the glass house paid my bills. Over time he became incensed with me, furious if I digressed in any way from “just yoga”. The eggshells I walked on. In the last few months I brought flash cards and taught the same sequence every time and it was uncomfortable and worrying- if I had something to say about the body he may not even respond and I could feel the tension sparking off him, or if I had a question about where he was feeling something, I’d quickly realize I should not have asked. He wanted “not to even have to look at me”. This was how it would be meditative for him. He wanted just to be led.
No one took his place it turned out. Two clients lost jobs, one had a series of accidents, many disappeared without a trace, some stayed and cheered me on. This year’s theme? Crumbling, dismantling, fretting, learning, learning more, gaining tools to help those who would have me, finances squarely in red. Writing things down is sustaining me so this is where I’m looking. Isn’t it all I ever really felt I could do- tell stories? Isn’t it what I wanted more than anything to be?
This is not the first time-heavens no- that all the stuff I built collapsed and I am forced to dig out and see what’s left standing.
The gift of ebb is darkness in which to rest your eyes and cold to set you shivering and getting up to look around. Desperation is a sharp cudgel or a swift kite or a wide tire or an ember poised to light the whole pile ablaze. That dirt you have piled all around your boots? Rough clay to wedge into something and then rain: gushing water to make your seeds unfurl.