And now it’s like this...
A simple phrase that can help me access a more spacious life perspective and (hopefully!) not take myself, and my particular experience, so darn seriously. As a yoga teacher, it’s a message I introduce weekly to my class. (Side note: Thank you Yandara yoga teacher training!) Despite its regular rotation in my vocabulary, it’s still a challenge to remember during emotionally intense times. “And now it’s like this...” A reminder of how transient our experience is. It’s all temporary. And now it’s like this, I’m stuck in traffic, and running late to an appointment (deep breath). It can help the internal dialogue from morphing into a less-than-helpful background story, “You’re always late! When are you going to get your sh*t together?!” How many years have I spent harassing myself unintentionally? Sheesh.
“And now it’s like this...” If I were to get a tattoo, that’d be it. I keep remembering and forgetting this phrase; it’s like a form of existential dementia... I have choices in my life; I’m a victim of circumstance. There’s always possibility; I’m stuck.
Above are two postcards I found at a gift shop in Toulouse, France. I laughed out loud when I put them next to each other. A perfect visual gap of what I’d secretly hoped my European trip would look/feel like, and the coarse (and often comedic) phenomenon of my experience.
The Left: A 1950’s version of what we’d like to show on Instagram... elegant well-lit moments, a touch of romance, and a sense of confident arrival in a glamorous city.
The Right: My awkward family of neuroses shows up... uninvited. Clumsy. Provincial.
The Left: An implied backstory of engaging conversation with an international crowd, beautiful clothes, parties, grace, ease.
The Right: Insecurity, Comparison, Expectation, Disappointment and Loneliness crowding the door of my experience... with goofy grins.
I spent the month of June in Europe. I’ve talked about revisiting France since the late 90’s, after I returned (unexpectedly) to the U.S. from the Peace Corps. The last time I was in Paris, I was being medevaced from Niger. It was an overnight stop en route to Washington D.C. The required anti-malaria medication, Lariam, gave me more than the vivid dreams the Peace Corps doctors said could be a side effect... I got panic attacks. I swallowed a fish bone that scratched my throat, and I was suddenly afraid of choking in a remote African village. I had no vocabulary for explaining my new anxiety to fellow volunteers, or Peace Corps staff. I became afraid of eating. The sensation of my scratched throat (with the help of Lariam) made me feel like I would choke eating any solid food. The Peace Corps doctors gave me Valium and a guilt trip, “We’ve spent a lot of money getting you here. Are you going to serve your country or not?” They gave me a week to decide. At the end of the week, I was no closer to understanding this new internal phenomena, so I chose to go home. I’d like to think the Peace Corps is more thoughtful in their communication now.
Sedated, embarrassed and disappointed, I returned to the U.S.
I started counseling to understand anxiety. It was 1996. Internet use was minimal, and so was the understanding of the relatively new drug. I learned about meditation, and remembered a helpful PC volunteer who was a massage therapist. He thoughtfully rubbed my shoulders after swallowing the fish bone, and I remembered how emotionally comforting it was. It was a natural progression from therapeutic introspection, to registering for massage school six months later. I was happy to learn more about the benefits of massage, for myself and others. I was also motivated by knowing that I could help people immediately, instead of wondering if a Peace Corps project would actually be beneficial/effective for the local population. Anxiety slowly became less of a ruling emotion in my life.
In the twenty years that followed, I’d wanted to return to France. I even talked about finding a way to live there. The years passed, yet I never bought a ticket. I was busy. It wasn’t the right time. Blah, blah, blah. An imminent professional change, combined with several friends living in Europe, gave me the motivation I needed to buy a ticket this year. Aware of the pressure surrounding a long-awaited/talked about trip, I reminded myself that it didn’t have to be a transcendental experience. Keep it simple: visit dear friends, eat delicious food, and look for ways to be grateful.
Despite the self talk to keep my expectations in check, I found myself resisting travel snafus that test your zen. Versions of “it’s not supposed to go this way!” resistance showed up. I lost my passport as soon as I got to Spain. I’m a professional traveler. Really?! It fell out of my jacket pocket somewhere between the Malaga airport and the train station luggage locker. At the time, I told myself to be gentle. I’d had a headache the day before, and spent the afternoon in my hotel room sleeping. I missed exploring Berlin with a dear friend and her daughter. (Sigh)
“Be gentle,” I said to myself. Deep breaths and bring on the rose oil! Rose oil has been used for thousands of years for ceremony, healing and promoting relaxation. When I discovered the good stuff (not the artificial smell I’d associated in childhood with grandmothers at church), I was hooked. A small vial of pure rose oil is my constant companion.... and lip balm, um... and hand lotion. I digress...
Ok, so I lost my passport. I was planning on visiting Barcelona (one of only two locations for getting emergency passports in Spain) a few days later. I’ll get a new one. Pay some money and replace a government document. Easy peasy. It’s not personal. No big drama. Despite the rose oil, self-talk and the deep breaths, each accompanying delay associated with the passport poked at my confidence. I spent two hours in a Seville police station getting documentation for the lost passport. Hours lost of sweet afternoon light, instead of exploring Seville with visiting girlfriends. Two more hours at a cafe the next morning emailing the U.S. consulate for documents, and booking a last-minute train, because you can’t fly without a passport. Be gentle. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. More rose oil please!
Distracted in Seville, I neglected refining my France plans. I had twelve days intentionally unscheduled between Barcelona and Paris. (I’d been hoping for some travel synchronicity - a chance meeting or conversation that leads me to some unexpected adventure). Instead, I kept slipping into a mental loop of self-doubt “What?! You’ve wanted to revisit France for 20 years and you don’t have anything booked except your Paris Airbnb?” and “If you were more organized, you’d have a great plan, instead of last-minute grasping.” Give me another hit of that rose oil!
We bring ourselves wherever we go, no matter how glamorous the location. My OCD self came out in Berlin airport security... I was muttering “Fascists!” not-so-under-my breath to Germany’s version of TSA. Do they REALLY need to paw through all my toiletries, pull them out of the clear ziplock bag and into those nasty bins? My laptop and cell phone too?! Bullsh*t. The UK was way more civilized! Yup, I’m a thoughtful, massage therapist and yoga teacher who can get angry in airport security.
And now it’s like this. I kept remembering and forgetting. I’m hiking Montserrat with a friendly guide, feeling alive and content. The dramatic mountain peaks, cool morning air, and monestary, remind me of the long history of humans looking for answers in wild and beautiful places. I’m at peace.
