THE YOGA DIARIES: SPRING BREAK CALIFORNIA

Yoga in the desert … what could be better? I spent spring break deepening my yoga practice as well as really listening for long periods of time (something that city life seems to make me think I don’t have time to do), while camping my way through California with my boyfriend, Geoff, for ten whole days!

We started off in the Mojave desert, in Joshua Tree National Park. It was a shock to the system-in the best way. The absence of humidity was the first thing I noticed, aside from the heat of the sunshine, the crystal-clear blue sky, and the sand under my feet. The place felt so far away from Chicago, far away from the pollution of LA (though on a later trek, I would see the blurry effects of that place’s car pollution, two hundred miles away from it). I was far away from obligations, far away from “I should …” which is a phrase that torments me constantly when I’m at home. I was there to find stillness, quiet.

It’s interesting how one finds stillness through movement. In a way, that’s what yoga is: using controlled movements to find the place where the mind is capable of being still, even in motion. Within yoga postures, while the body is flowing gracefully with the breath, moving with prana, the transition between asanas is where I feel mental stillness. Just walking can be a practice in stillness. I've noticed that when I’m in the city, it is very difficult to sustain that mental-stillness between postures whether it's between postures in my practice or at school or even sitting on the eL. Jumping from one posture to another, it’s like I’m rushing to get to a destination that does not exist. Moving through a series quickly doesn’t make the time go any faster. But somehow, my mind has learned how to stay in control, pushing me toward the elusive something that I can never reach. When I’m in nature, it’s far easier to slow down.

On our trip, I tried telling Geoff that PLACE is extremely important to me, that I think I would be so much happier in a rural setting than in the city. But no, he said, place doesn’t matter.

“A problem is a problem,” he explained, “Your issues will follow you anywhere you go. Moving or leaving or traveling just helps you to forget about them, but they'll come up again somehow. You have to learn to confront problems, not run away from them.”

Where I believe he is right about needing to confront issues instead of moving away from them, I disagree that being in a certain place can’t help you feel ready to confront those issues more fully or even more quickly than you would if you’re caught up in the hustling energy of a busy city. When a person is in the middle of nature, she must be aware; she must watch where she’s going; must slow down and become aware or else get a thorn in the foot or trip over a rock or bump a head on a tree branch. Whereas, in the city, it feels almost essential to shut off many of the senses to avoid a system overload. If in the city, a person acknowledges every source of light, every advertisement and every new object, she wouldn’t make it through a day. Or, at least that’s how I feel.

The sun. There’s something that happens when you’re in a tent and the energy, heat, and light from the sun permeates your tent on an early desert morning. I’d previously had trouble waking up in the mornings, and like a bear I wish I could just hibernate the Chicago winter away. I can sleep for days. But that powerful, firey energy practically pulled me out of my sleeping bag and out of my tent into the cool morning air. It kept fueling my energy throughout the day. It felt like the sun was saluting me, shining through my body and waking me—recharging me—from a long, dark winter.

In the mornings, I would face it, breathing it in, lifting my arms toward the morning blue—endless sky that is lighter than the vibrant, rich color that would come midday, as though the atmosphere had just been awakened by the sun, like me. I did sun salutations for people back home in the cold, dedicating one to each of my friends, my family, my teachers, sending them warmth and light. That practice of dedication somehow fuels me, too, knowing that I’m not only doing this for myself, but for others as well. It sustains me—“Oh! I need to do one more, for Michael,” and “Can’t forget Lexi,” and “Just one more, for Dad…” I felt that I could just go on and on.

The Earth. We did a lot of hiking, taking aimless walks along vague paths through the brush. I found myself lingering behind, my head relaxed so my eyes cast downward, memorizing the rocks and little blooming plants and less inviting spiny ones along the way. Hiking became a meditation; my mind slowed and thought only of the step I was taking, the place I was AT. I was conscious of my breath, and most days I wore flip-flops—flimsy ones that are just a thin protective barrier so I could feel like I was almost barefoot. I felt like I was absorbing a solid, steady, grounding energy, breathing in the earth.

I liked how this happened—this extension of yoga outside what I deemed my “Practice,” permeating my actions without me trying so hard to make that happen.

Climbing was liberating—the texture of the coarse granite was reassuring because as I climbed, it was as though the granite gripped me, held me in place, supported me so that the fear I usually have of heights and of falling and of losing my footing was gone. Standing at the edge of a high cliff, the soft warm wind strumming the tip of my nose, the sun heating my skin, I got a profound feeling of being supported by the universe, which expanded and condensed simultaneously all around me.

Yoga seeped into every action on that trip. Life as I had obsessively been living it slowed down enough that I became conscious of breath and of my body, and also of how the energy of a place flows through me. I was able to really, truly feel more compassion and love for my boyfriend. I didn’t write, I didn’t produce, there was barely an outward flow of energy. I was a dried-up, crusty sponge, and each day I became more and more full, soaking it up and recording sights and energy with photographs and memories.

Water. Next, we traveled to the Great Sequoia National Forest, where the landscape was incredibly different. Foggy skies, thick air, and massive, gnarled, mossy trees created a sense of mystery in this place. It was mystical, magical, and THICK.

Geoff and I made our way through the damp brush and found an incredible waterfall. Calm streams of meltwater tributaries fed a pond of crystal-clear water, which flowed through a jutting-out rock, then cascaded into a wild, foamy fall. I walked out to the rock, sat in easy pose, and put my hand into the water. Cold, crisp. I meditated there awhile, and an intense pull came over me. It was as though all the little worries and attachments and sadness that caught and stuck within me were pulled into that water and away with its tide. It wasn’t long before I felt cleaned, purified.

We slept near a creek, to the churning of the water, lulled into deep dreams of swimming and flying.

The same effect seemed to happen at the beach, once we reached the coast. The ocean pulled away anxieties, the sunset put all worries to rest. The stars expanded into infinity above us. My chest opened and interwove with the universe.

I can’t believe how difficult it was to come home. It was an absolute shock to my system—in the worst way. Through those ten days, I had gradually, slowly let go of all my commitments, my “should”s, my attachments to what I’m going to do in the future, the ideas of who I wanted to mold myself into. Then suddenly it was like a punch in the face. All at once, everything was back—but WORSE! I hadn’t done any reading, any homework on my trip. I was graduating in a month! My mind filled up and overflowed with things I should have done, things I should put on my list to do, things I needed to accomplish before graduation, and I was too busy to do yoga, I had more urgent things to do than meditate, and it was like cement covered the earth to the point of suffocation.

It took me two weeks to write this, because finally I’ve slowed down enough to remember that trip: how I felt, what I did. And after finally taking the time for reflection, after being here, yet still pulling myself out of the trivialities of my life enough, I can remember my trip, and find the spaces in my self where it still resides, bringing them forth and shining them through to others.

I know that there is no “fixing” my anxiety. The return home from this incredible trip made that absolutely clear to me. But I am reminded again and again that the solution to my obsessions is to take time for myself, over and over, to reflect and to relax, and to pull away out of my patterns to find that really, everything is going to be okay. It is a constant practice, and this I remind myself as I make the transition into whatever new chapter of my life and every new day that comes.