Sometimes you just have to root around for the baggage ticket and reclaim the person you once were.
I was a city person: ate, breathed, walked, talked, worked, slept, fought for, and loved (unconditionally) New York City. We’d been a team for thirty years.
I let go of that life over a decade ago, and slowly became who I am now. No longer plugged into street energy, or caring about what’s happening, what’s opening, what’s hot and what’s not, I am now otherwise engaged. A backyard drama involving roaming cats I’ve befriended, flocking birds who rely on my heavy hand with the seed, and chitchat over the hedge or snow shovel with my neighbors both stimulates and satisfies, while the quiet calm of winter sky and the lapping of river waves before they are stilled into ice lull me into a cocoon of semi-hibernation.
More than all that, I am now a we. I share my home, my space, my time, my energy, my heart with a tall man who makes me laugh. Whose character and reliability I can stake my life on.
Two snowstorms in four days have me a bit tense and claustrophobic. Only, on closer look, it’s not just the weather. It’s a need to breathe deeply, and not in tandem with this tall man, but alone. That need requires an environment I can dive into, obliterating my current life above the surface. Sometimes it is a visit to my past.
I plan a day in the city, and visit a yoga class I hadn’t been to in half a decade. The teacher is one who had led me through breath and asanas, navigating the days following the 9/11 attacks. We exchange smiles, and the class begins. I remember how intense my practice had been back then. The heat of the room and the familiar flows both caress my muscle memory and taunt me as I struggle to keep up. I do what I can, and realize that my ego is not putting the demands on me that it once did. I have changed. And I am still that person.
The duality is not confusing–it comforts. I sit on the train, heading home, bone-tired yet exhilarated. I want nothing more now but to enter my kitchen, stomp the snow off my boots, and tell the tall man I share my life with about my day.
photo by sharon watts