In a former life, I was devout. I was breathing, I was feeling, I was introspective. In a former life I did yoga every day, twice a day. I was partaking in conscious communication. I was living yoga on and off the mat. I was stretching, I was breathing into it, I was in the moment.
In a former life, I was a massage student. I was moving, I was feeling. I was assessing muscle tension with my hands. In a former life, I was meeting the muscle where it was. I was lunging, I was using my forearm, I was lifting my back heel and keeping my head level.
Now those versions of me can only be seen through a pinhole in a diorama. In brief Friday-night visits to the studio, where candlelight dances in the corner and the smell of incense brings me home to myself. I sneak a peek into that life when I touch the back of my date’s neck as we watch a movie. My hand is seeking tension; my fingers tingle with knowing and kneading.
But I want to remember that it’s this life – this current life that I’m in right now – that needs my attention. No daily satsang. No familiar smell of massage oil. No soft, pink Kripillow to sit on. I have to make my home here in this life I’ve chosen. In this office, in this pod – I need to learn to find myself here, and flourish.