Day 5 of The School of Yoga Immersion Part I in Tucson, Arizona:

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Today we spoke of Practice or Abhyasa. As Patanjali put it:

Practice is

1.     Repetitious, without interruption

2.     Continual, over a long period of time

3.     Reverence, devotion

After a day of asana (where I held handstand in the middle of the room for THREE WHOLE SECONDS thank you very much) I find myself sitting in a café on 4^th Avenue, Bob Dylan in my ears, left hand curled around hot Earl Grey with milk and honey, in the middle of the desert. It’s dusk and the sun low in the sky sets the mountains and the tops of the stoplights on fire. There’s a haze over the city, obscuring the light, like I’m peering though a screen door. There’s a certain kind of crustiness to the people down here. They’ve been weathered by the sun and the dry heat. Their exteriors are rougher, more scaly like most desert creatures. I mean this in the best sense—their hearts are soft and yearn to connect with water, with truth, with a smile from a passerby on the street. The necessity is here and The School of Yoga has something to fulfill this necessity.

It’s January 22 and a tiny fake Christmas tree in the corner, with balls too big for it’s britches—I mean branches—watches over a semi-serious breakup happening at the table in front of it. A young Cary Elwes (The Princess Bride) is studiously casting side-ways glances at me, and texting while occasionally reading the textbook in front of him. Curly hair capped by a green beanie, has his back to me; white t-shirt tight around his latissimus dorsi. Another, she’s curled around a book in the corner to my right. Another, they stare at separate computer screens trying to tame the sexual tension, pretending to be interested in whatever their blue screens are displaying. And another, they order at the counter, she plays with her hair, and he glances at the adds taped to the register casually uninterested. They pay separately. Another, he walks in, grey Converse, khaki pants, green hoodie, I can’t see his face. There are so many. Her blue shell earrings stare at me like big round eyes from across the room.

It’s dark outside now, and the older one with white hair, fingers flying over keyboard, shows no signs of leaving. Here we are, you, me, us, them, us, we, we are all the same—human, fleshy, emotional, blobs of what? (Don’t answer that question,) instead, ask yourself, as Mary Oliver said, “What will you do with this one wild and precious life?”

I want to have the conversation of what matters to you. Laughter, I wan to laugh more. I want to stop being afraid to cry in public. I want to be able to tell people how my day is really going, and say Yes without holding back.

What do you want?