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“In the stillness of remembering what you had and what you lost…”
I took my time with her.
Ran my fingers through the fresh soil.
Re-organized pots mentally, trying to land on the right one for her and her babies, which I would have to relocate.
I even started taking pictures like I was starring in my own little gardening documentary.
“Oh, thunder only happens when it’s raining”
…I pruned and carefully uprooted, feeling weirdly
proud of myself for finally tending to something
before I hit that first obstacle.
The mother stem wouldn’t fit in the new pretty white pot.
One arm snapped off.
There were too many babies growing in too many directions, and I couldn’t tell if I was helping Lorraine or ruining the entire future of her family.
It didn’t help that I was doing all this in the middle ofa kitchen I had abandoned for three days.
I was triaging succulents between a pileup of dirty dishes and takeout boxes and a counter sticky from dried duck sauce and Nutella.
Every time I cleared one little patch of space, another thing needed me.
Move the coffee mugs.
Save the roots.
Rinse a plate, move the bowl stack.
Wipe the counter, untangle the stems.
Scoop dirt.
Silverware clattering.
Don’t forget the babies drying out on the paper towel.
At some point I stepped back to look at the scene: my own little emergency room of dismembered plant parts and dirty dishes, each screaming to be treated first…And I’m kind of feeling like only Stevie can rescue me at this point from completely going sideways, so I turn the music louder and join her, half singing, half almost crying:
“You see your gypsy, ooh ooh…”
Luckily I was saved by having to go teach.
Next thing I know, I’m mid-flow in the Lotus Room cueing my Sundaycrew through vayus and talking about Jackson Pollock.
About how devotion moves differently than pressure. How sometimes the deeper thing isn’t forcing the fancy bind behind yourback, but taking a fuller breath in the version of the shape you’re already in.
How the inhale becomes the exhale becomes the inhale again.
Are they really as separate as we think?
And all around me:
arms flying,
ribcages spiraling,
people gliding,
people reaching,
people catching themselves,
Looping in and out of shapes in completely different timing.
The exact thing that felt overwhelming in my kitchen suddenly looksbeautiful, now that it is allowed to move.
My glasses are starting to slide down my nose.
I glance over at the windows and realize they look like the showerdoor after my teenage daughter takes one of her “quick” showers.
I turn on the fan and a collective sigh moves through the room as I guide them toward uttanāsana.
The room drops into quieter rhythms.
I pause too, not wanting to interrupt the transition.
I observe hips subtly recalibrating over tired feet seeking steady ground.
I see some arms tightly wrapped behind calves, other arms loose like wet ropes.
I watch backs of necks unraveling.
I’m hearing the audible sighs,in different octaves,
the regret of words never said,
the forgiveness of the harsh ones that were.
I’m feeling my own life sprawling in so many directions at once, and how impossible yet magnificent it is to be here breathing in spite of it.
The quiet opens a bit wider
And into that space, I say:
“Pressure says: finish everything.
Devotion says: tend to this one moment carefully.
Pressure asks: why isn’t this bigger?
Devotion asks: did you love it well?”
Later in shavāsana, I share something from my notebook, written the night before class:
“Perhaps devotion doesn’t move in a straight line.It moves through strange rituals.
Half-finished paintings.
The long way around.
Conversations that become teachings.
Bodies that refuse straight lines.
Wild gardens.
Unanswered questions.
The same songs on repeat.
I used to think growth would look cleaner than this.
Now I think life spreads like roots.
Like mycelium.
Like stories.
Like finding ourselves again in fragments.
Not upward, but outward in all ways.”
Maybe pressure is that old worn out story insisting your worth needs to be proven through all these things.
And maybe the body never fully believed it.
Maybe the breath always knew.
Like some old guru, laughing in the shadows through a cloud of smoke,
nah, it’s right here.
Feel.
The way it spirals.
You think you can grasp it.
Feel.
Your almost-full inhale,
Your trapped exhale fighting its way out into the light.
Everything is impossible and magnificent at the same time.
In all directions.
Unfinished.
Circular.
Again.
Again.
And again.
Will you
love it well?
