I received a text from a friend today who I travelled with across Australia and South East Asia. He’d watched a programme about a South Korean Buddhist monk and messaged to tell me it reminded him of a conversation we had shared in Cairns.
I remembered it so clearly. Remembered all the conversations so very clearly. Everything from the in depth talks about life and its many intricacies over a tall pint of beer right through to the nights spent under the stars delving into spiritual teachings.
We were so in tune with our own thoughts and innermost questions. Our hearts open, gapingly even, to drink in with a wild desire every new piece of information and inspiration.
Our world was a puzzle, and we felt so very blessed to find those pieces and figure out quite how they slotted together.
My kindle was heavy with readings from Deepak Chopra, Baron Baptiste and Thich Nhat Hanh. Their words gave me the strength to forgive my Mother. And even now, after an attempt to rebuild those bridges and coming to realise they are too broken to repair, their teachings have provided me with the love to accept this truth and live with it.
At that time, I felt full and… I guess, awake?
Awake. That’s it.
So why is it that since returning to “ordinary” life, it has has it been so hard for me to open my eyes?
It took me a long time to understand that I could not (and should not) rest my happiness and self worth on a location. I felt guilty for returning to my home town after so many years away. As if I had taken a step back into a past I wanted to forget and was foolishly leaving behind a life I had only ever dreamt of.
Regret walked with me like a shadow, anxiety my second heart beat. “Itchy feet” didn’t even hint at the intense emotions running from my head to my toes pushing me to pick up that passport once again.
Everything was boring. Everything was dull.
Where was the beauty? Where was the discovery?
I blamed this lack of stimulation and overwhelming sense of monotony on my own inability to connect with that girl I had become those few months ago.
Or, rather, the girl I had allowed myself to be.
I no longer felt full and in a state of mindfulness. Far from it, really.
The only time I stepped back into that beautiful state of being was when I placed myself on the mat. My practice would be transcendent, my mind at peace and hungry for my teachers simple but deeply affecting words.
Until recently. Until I gave myself the permission to take my teachers words away from the mat and into my life.
It sounds silly, doesn’t it? An obvious concept.
And yet something had been stopping me from taking them out of my safe haven into my “real world.”
When my teacher returned from a retreat in India back to Shirley, we were of course all bursting with questions for him. His answers were full of joy but very calm, collected.
“Whether you are somewhere exotic and beautiful like India or back in quiet Shirley, it doesn’t matter really, does it? Those things, they’re just external. They’re temporary. The only constant is yourself. And that is the only place you can truly gain fulfilment.”
*the penny drops*
Isn’t it the oddest thing when someone puts into words exactly what you have been searching for all along?
And now I feel as if I have accepted and welcomed that… now I once again want to commit to living in a mindful existence.
There are many ways I hope to do this. My daily yoga practice. Exploring Buddhist groups in the community. Going back to my readings.
Living, loving, learning.
Maybe this blog can help me chronicle them. Give me a space to be and reflect.
I want to allow myself to be that girl who held herself as a blank canvas and lived every moment as it was supposed to be lived.
It doesn’t matter whether I am doing that amidst a Balinese sacred site, a remote island or the comfort of my humble flat in Southampton.
None of those things define who I am or what I want to be.
That? That can only come from myself.