Your Work is Not Here

When my hand would start cramping up from so much writing in my journal, I'd go for a swim in the crystalline blue bay to relax and clear my mind (or occasionally to ponder about my likelihood of developing serious carpal tunnel syndrome in my wrists, while floating on the gentle waves).

If I had a choice, I would choose to spend the majority of my waking hours in the ocean. Perhaps this is because I grew up in a landlocked state and still live in a landlocked country--the ocean is exotic to me, a rare resource that I'm never quite sure when I'll see again.

During my childhood, we would go on family vacations every other year to a beach on the New Hampshire seacoast. Let me remind you for a second that I'm from Nebraska. So my parents would take turns driving four kids, multiple beach floaties, fishing poles, my Dad's oldies mixtapes, food to last us until New Hampshire, and occasionally a grandma or dog packed into in our '90s minivan halfway across the country. Despite narrowly avoiding World War III on several occasions, there was no feeling like that first glimpse of the ocean as our minivan rounded King's Highway. Despite the brisk 60 degree New England water, my siblings and I would be at the beach from morning to sunset, coming in to sun ourselves on the rocks when our limbs went numb from swimming. I always felt a mix of sadness and nostalgia during my final swim on our last day at the beach, knowing that I was headed back to the Great Plains and wouldn't get to smell that powerful saltwater scent and feel the waves supporting my body for another two years.

My enchantment with the ocean remains today (thankfully, the Thailand water was much warmer than the frigid New Hampshire seacoast of my childhood). I'd soak in it for as long as I could and then eventually, when my hands were more wrinkly than raisins, I'd go back to my writing in the open-air beachside hut. I finished writing about the past after nearly three days and moved onto the present and the future. Even though writing about 2017 took me a long time, the present and future were much more difficult to write about.

Much of what I wanted to force myself to think about under my "present" category was the person that I am today: What are my fears? What are my flaws? What are my strengths? What are my regrets? What am I grateful for? What makes me happy in life? Whereas writing about the past only required a cursory glance at a pile of memories in my mind and a lot of transcribing of those memories, writing about the present and future necessitated a much high degree of processing and contemplation.

I started on flaws. It was relatively easy for me to write about most of my flaws compared to some of the other present and future topics, and I quickly had a list of 21 idiosyncrasies, flaws, and insanities, one coming right after the other. I can be impatient. I can be a perfectionist at times. I'm often running two minutes late, and I want to be a better listener than I am. On and on my pen moved across the pages, thoroughly documenting my faults on the pages of my bright green journal.

I moved onto regrets. Even though I try to not have regrets, there are things that I definitely wish I could change about 2017. I'll spare you the details, but if it makes you feel any better, know that if I offended you or was impatient with you or you were on the receiving end of my very long list of faults in any way whatsoever, I probably spent multiple sleepless nights analyzing and examining every aspect of the interaction in my head over the past year and that I'm sincerely sorry.

* * *

And then I started to write about my strengths. I stared at my journal for a long, long time. Finally I wrote:
1) I'm alive. I'm a living, breathing human being.
"Wow good one, keep going," my mind said sarcastically.

2) I'm not addicted to anything.
"You're really on a roll now," my mind continued.

After pausing awhile longer, I added an addendum to #2.
2) I'm not addicted to anything. Except coffee.

I hesitated, and then revised it again:
2) I'm not addicted to anything. Except coffee. And cheese.

I kept staring at my journal again, waiting for my strengths to jump out of the page at me.

I went to my afternoon yoga class, my mind distracted the entire time trying to think of what my strengths are.
"Clearly not your triceps," my mind whispered after I struggled through what seemed like the hundredth chaturanga of the class. My mind can be a real asshole sometimes.

After the yoga class, I was still agonizing over this question. To be completely honest, it's far easier for me to see my own flaws. I can be my own worst critic. I went out for another swim, trying to reset. I've got to have other strengths besides not being dead and not being addicted to anything but coffee and cheese, right?

I swam further out into the large bay, until the yoga retreat center was a cluster of tiny beachside houses in the distance, and then I stopped to just float on my back. Unlike at the retreat center's sheltered beach, I was out in open water now, and the waves lightly jostled me to and fro. I closed my eyes and felt the bright sunlight warming my face and smelled the seawater and smiled to myself.

And then:
"You are capable of very deep love." 

* * *

By the fourth day, the silent retreat began to feel both like paradise and prison. The silence and practicing up to five hours of yoga every day was wearing on me a bit. I had become accustomed to smiling and giving a friendly nod as a greeting to my fellow yogis, but I yearned for a bit of small talk to get to know them better. How were their days going? Wasn't the breakfast delicious today? Would they fancy going for a swim with me after the yoga class? It was tough to avoid the pleasantries that would normally fill the space and time during a similar interaction outside of the yoga center, but I bit my tongue and kept to my smiles and nods.

I went to the 7 am "complete" class, a two hour class with more advanced postures, on the fourth day. I was sweating through an intense sequence already, and then the next posture was announced: Hanumanasana. Monkey pose. Full splits pose. My yoga nemesis.

Despite practicing yoga for around 15 years at this point, and being a certified yoga instructor, I cannot get fully into hanumanasana.

I was struggling mightily, getting closer to the full expression of the posture than I've ever gotten before. My pelvis hovered just a couple of inches off the floor and I felt my hamstrings stretching to their limit. Sweat rolled down my face in beads as I approached my edge.

And then:

"Your work is not here."

Excuse me? Can't you see how hard I'm working? My work is definitely here, I protested.

"Your work is not here."

I didn't understand. How could this not be my work? I was practically indignant.

"Your work is not here."

And then, I realized.

My work is not at a beautiful Thai island yoga retreat center, where I can get 8 solid hours of sleep every night and write in my journal and be detached from the real challenges and stresses of daily life.

My work is being patient and kind even when I'm sleep deprived from trying to juggle motherhood and a full time job; when I've been up with a sick kid all night and have a project due the next day and I'm wondering how I can keep it all together.

My work is not when I'm sheltered away from the hardships of humanity and sometimes cruel realities of this world, far from the nearest newspaper headline or cable news channel.

My work is in the countryside of Rwanda, where I cannot hide from the challenges of hunger and poverty and climate change some of my own neighbors face, when D'Assise asks me almost daily if we can spare extra bananas or bread to give to his neighborhood friends who didn't eat lunch that day.

My work is not when I'm doing five hours of advanced yoga classes each day with talented yoga instructors from around the world with a stunning view of the ocean, no matter how difficult the poses might be.

It's when I'm trying to fit in five minutes of meditation in between biking my son to school and sitting down at my computer.

My work is not when I'm blissfully swimming in the beautiful warm waters of the retreat center's beach.

My work is when D'Assise is chasing me around the house with underwear on his head trying to tickle me and I'm trying stay present and give him all the love and attention he deserves instead of thinking of my to do list.

My work is not at this peaceful place where I'm served artfully prepared organic vegetarian food in the center's cafe overlooking the bay.

My work is when I'm anxious about D'Assise's health and future, but I'm determined to never, ever let him know.

This is not my work. That is my work.

To be continued.