This weekend I visited Tyler’s Aunt and Uncle in Connecticut. They are moving from their fairytale house, a geodesic dome, with acres of runaway land. Butternut squash moves through their vegetable garden like a swamp thing. The wood burning stove stretches way up to the dome ceiling and the fire cackles as they make their way through endless bottles of wine.
But they’re ready to leave it, much to everyone else’s dismay, and a new home waits for them in Maryland, while they wait to sell the dome. And so they find themselves in a holding pattern. In their minds, they are in Maryland already. They are ready for that new life. But, physically, they are in the same place they’ve always been.
I sympathize with this feeling. In recent months I’ve felt that I know where I want to be and I can’t quite get there. I’m ready to be married to Tyler but we’ve somehow been caught in an unintentional, epic-long engagement. I know where I want to be professionally but it’s taking a while to get there. My goal of published author is now four years in the making (at least twenty-four years in the dreaming stage) and it doesn’t seem any closer, no matter how many words have been written, no matter how much I’d like to measure progress in other terms.
But Tyler’s Aunt told me about an experience in a recent yoga class that changed her attitude and, after hearing it, it changed mine.
While stretching on her mat during class, her hand brushed against her husband’s and so they stayed that way, for a moment, holding hands. When the teacher instructed they go into a resting pose, they immediately let go, shifting, following instructions, getting into the correct position.
Apparently, the teacher had seen them holding hands and told them to go back to that moment. “Celebrate the joy you have,” he said.
Of course, she told me that story, and it touched me. I knew I had to have it. It’s probably time I admit that I don’t have any of my own stories. I steal them. I sneak out with them through the always open door.