Full Circle

Happy Ocean Day. An email from the Nature Conservancy asks “What is your connection to the ocean?”

My mother asked me an equally hard question recently as I planned my trip back home: Do you realize, Nicole, that you’ll have come full circle? “Yeah, Ma, I can see that,” I said. “So what then?” she asked. One day at a time, I told her. I haven’t gotten there yet. Of course, those tough questions have a way of hanging around and this one has been lingering for weeks.

When I left home nearly three years ago I had two suitcases of belongings, a dog named Cain who I loved and cared for better than myself at times, and a head full of unanswered questions. There were those questions of my own that I’d carried around all my life up til then, the questions asked of others who didn’t or couldn’t understand, and the multitude of others yet to come. I landed in Costa Rica with a heapful of faith that one step at a time would present itself, and like this I tread with great care into my new life.

Warm, early dawn tropical air greeted me as I stepped from the airport terminal. Kindness from a taxi driver who understood my fatigue carried me from San Jose to Manuel Antonio snuggled in the backseat like two spoons with my confused dog. Four hours later, sunshine and groggy eyes looked across mountains and sea, “Where to?” the driver asked. “I don’t know,” I managed to respond. “Pura vida,” he replied and continued on.

Sol y Mar Backpackers Hostel received us with a smile, an open door, a clean bed, a hot shower. Days passed much like this as we adapted to our new home.

In small town Costa Rica, atop a rainforested mountain that dwindles down into endless blue sea, a yoga instructor in love with nature and her dog, once accustomed to the humid heat, blend as easily as the foliage, as smoothly as seafoam into sand. At least at first. Tourists in a town that thrives on tourism are catered to like kings and queens. There comes a moment, however, when a gringa who hangs around too long shifts from tourist to local, but not really. It’s in that strange limbo that the real challenge begins.

For two years, I learned to surf in Costa Rica, both literally and figuratively, and every wave was a wild ride. I awoke each day with the birds and insects the size of birds singing their wake up call outside my windows. I hiked barefoot through jungle mud because even the strongest Havaianas just don’t hold up. I met new friends daily from all around the world, some who stayed days, others for months, a few are still there journeying on. Overall, I learned the hard lesson in how to not to hold on too tight to anything. I lost Cain one day to an unexpected crocodile on the beach and learned the hardest definition of all of pura vida. Every day, a new lesson stripped me raw. Every night, I offered what I learned to yogis new and well-practiced from all across the globe. I found myself, some days, for a myriad of reasons, without a penny or colón, and learned how far my feet can carry me to wherever I need to go. I learned to crack coconuts for milk and for meat. I savored mango season, sometimes out of necessity and sometimes for the pure tasty pleasure of biting in and dribbling sweetness down the front of my bikini on the long hike that eventually became a leisurely stroll down the mountain path to the beach. This, the juiciest version and true essence of pura vida.

Lost love makes the space for new. I met Fede while walking the very same beach where I lost Cain one week after burying his washed up remains after a few rainy days. I’ve spent the past year and eight months learning the joy and pain of having a partner on my journey through all its heights and valleys.

As a traveler in a foreign land, law requires a departure every 90 days. I learned the value of what I’d considered poverty in even my poorest moments while traveling in Nicaragua. I've climbed volcanoes and watched red lava spew fiery rivers inches from my feet, I've lain in Savasana upon a quaking terrace during a tremor in Guatemala. I have climbed through deep passages in the Earth and come back to the surface with new awe. I followed hope to Argentina, which some days felt like another planet altogether, learned a new take on Spanish, and wine, cheese and pastries. I learned what it’s like to forget who you are and have to start over from scratch like a newborn. I slept on white sand beaches in Uruguay when rest was what I needed more than anything else.

And so now, after all this long time traveling, I’m packing up those same tired old suitcases, now worn through, with what’s left of what I’ve got and I realized in the process that the less I carry with me, the more I’ve got to share.

I’m going home. I don’t know for how long. I don’t know my next step. But I’ve got a heapful of faith that the next step will show up in its time.

I remember during my training to become a yoga teacher, my mentors explained to us exactly why we chant Om at the beginning and end of every class. That one small syllable is pregnant with the entire cycle of life. Every person, place and thing, every movement, every breath has a beginning, a continuance, a completion and that resonance that follows that can be felt to the very core. Some beginnings and endings are not so obvious, some like birth and death are undeniable. The resonance, however, is unmistakable. Every experience, every person leaves their trace, their hum, their footprint, behind in some tangible way. And sometimes only in that absence, do we know their true significance.

The ocean encompasses the whole globe. How can one say where it begins and where it ends? It makes a great big circle, and I don’t think it asks itself why. Every day the sun and moon turn themselves full circle ‘round the Earth, and I don’t see a single thing wrong in that.

I have come full circle. And now, I wait for the resonance to feel exactly what it all means.

Raices - Roots (part 2)

A good friend who asks all the hard questions asked me recently: Where do you see yourself in a year? Five years? Ten years?

I made a huge collage at the beginning of the year, images and words torn from various places, and pasted them all together into what I hope to be the story of this year to come. It's hanging on the bedroom wall. Some key words: multi-continental, explorer, yogi, hogar, una escritora mas reconocido en las Americas. There are images from all around Argentina and Costa Rica. Buenos Aires and a vision of home are in the center. There are lots of pictures of strong women climbing mountains, enjoying views, walking beaches with surfboard under arm. They're all by themselves. Don't get me wrong, there's a guy too. He's taking fotos, looking out from balconies, surfing nice waves, but from a breathable distance. At the moment, the guy in my story doesn't comprehend that space.

In 5 years? From seed to sprout to tree. Me, like now, but stronger, more stable. The life I'm generating, more fluid for all the practice and experience between now and then. I will still be traveling, enjoying, learning, sharing...with some spicy or sweet additions to that recipe as needed.

Ten years? I can't even go there.

But before the sprout, there must be roots, and I guess this is where I get confused. I met a new friend here recently. He's 70 years-old and still teaches 2 yoga classes per day. He doesn't seem a minute over 50. The other day we were talking and he told me, you need to put down roots somewhere. If it's not where you're from, then where you want to be. But if you don't put down roots, you can't enjoy the gifts and benefits of where you are and you certainly can't grow. But what if I really don't know where I want to plant myself???

One thing I know for sure about rooting a plant, to continue with the metaphor, is that if you move it from here to there and there and here again, the rooting doesn't take and it can't develop. The important thing is to nourish it where it is and allow it to branch up and out from there.

In June, I'm going to Costa Rica to lead a week-long yoga retreat. July, time in Philadelphia with my family and our new addition (it's a girl!) and friends. I've recently been considering an opportunity to go back to Costa Rica earlier than planned, staying for the month of May and into June. La Fortuna. Nature. Space. Yoga. All good, nourishing things. Everyone says it's an amazing opportunity and I'd be a fool to pass up (even Fede). I agreed completely until I got to thinking about roots.

What I know for sure is this: No matter what we plan for ourselves, life tends to unfold in mysterious ways. Babies are conceived unexpectedly. Death happens regardless of age or even well-being. Volcanoes erupt and people can't get home. The ground shakes and houses fall down. Hail the size of baseballs fall from the sky and crash through the windows of brand new cars (This happened here last week!). The deeper down you dig you find there's really nothing to hold onto. The best we can do is to live and love from good intentions, one day at a time, keep reaching out and up and enjoy everything...even the really difficult stuff. Right now, this is what I'm doing.

The Buddha said, "There is a place that cannot be found by going anywhere." I would like to put my roots down there.

Reflection

When I lived in Philadelphia, I spent a lot of time in Rittenhouse Square Park perched on a bench in the sun or lying in the grass, reading, people-walking-dog or people-watching-people watching, daydreaming of being someplace more exotic than downtown Philly. During my yoga teacher training, I began a process of self-transformation that took my self-study to new depths that eventually untethered me from mere daydreaming on park benches and led me off exploring. I went off in search of that someplace more exotic. I moved to Costa Rica.

For two years, I continued inward and outward explorations without the guidance of my teachers, guided instead by the undeniable truths whispered or roared by Mother Nature. I hiked barefoot through the jungle up to the ankles in muddy earth. I swam and surfed (and was oftentimes pummeled) by the sea. I gave up umbrellas and walked drenched in tropical rain. I ate mangoes freshly fallen from trees, learned to crack open coconuts to partake of all the sweet and juicy goodness inside the hard shell. I climbed rocks, cliffs, mountains and trees. If there was water below, I jumped.

One day, I met an Argentine on the beach and I jumped headfirst into him too.

I've been in Argentina for almost 8 months now. For the better part of it, I've missed the raw adventure of Costa Rica while trying to find the same sense of pleasure in this urban jungle. Buenos Aires is a huge city, 13 times the size of Philadelphia, and 13 times more exotic. There are palm trees instead of oaks, bright green parrots in addition to pigeons. The Argentine accent is as distinct as Philadelphian to English, though overlaying the Spanish I'm still learning. My new adventure consisted of tuning my ears to understand ll's that sound like j's instead of y's, converting systems of measurement, wearing winter clothes in August (or at all!) and celebrating Christmas in the heat of South American summer. I often find myself pummeled by these unknown waters I've plunged into and can't seem to get a breath of air.

Today, I came to Palermo to meet with a Spanish tutor, thinking that perfecting my communication skills might help me navigate with more confidence. After a ten minute consultation, I went wandering in the city. Just as I was beginning to ask myself why I was wasting time pounding pavement, I saw a tall iron gate surrounding a cluster of trees that could only be a city park. I beelined for the glimpse of nature. I strolled slowly through the Botanical Garden, scratching the heads of homeless cats and staring up the trunks of tall trees, until I found a bench in the sun. I sat and opened my book to read. In a moment, I looked up, digesting a passage I'd just read and found before me a familiar scene: a cement pond with a statue in the center, a woman, half-clothed, with long streaming hair and a downcast gaze considering her own reflection in the water. The woman's hair is a bit more wild and she is wearing less clothing, but she resembles so much the statue in the center of the nearly identical pond in Rittenhouse Square. There are koi swimming in the water below and lily pads bearing lotus flowers. Still, the traffic whizzing by on all sides of this tiny oasis, this could easily be Philadelphia. It's just a bit more exotic.

Perhaps our travels permit us to venture off only so far before we come face to face with our own reflection. Maybe now and then we need to take a peek back to see how far we've come or stop to gauge if we're heading in the right direction. Or maybe geography is irrelevant when it comes to our life's work. Finding oneself back at square one after an arduous journey requires some looking into.

Es un Quilombo (It's a Mess)

Miramar, Argentina – For a long time now I haven’t posted here. Mostly it’s because I was waiting to have some masterpiece to offer and, as of yet, nothing masterful has come to me. I realized recently, however, in my embarrassed silence when friends have asked if I’ve been writing, or in my sinking stomach when I saw this long-untouched site bookmarked as a favorite on my Mom’s computer, that the most important thing is to write, to pay attention and share what I see and how I see it. To use words to narrow all this distance.

I met a nice woman once who read some of my work. She told me she really liked what she read, but that she was more interested in seeing the rough draft. She wanted to see the scribbled out parts, the uncensored path I took to get to that too-perfect package I finally revealed to the public. So here it is, for Lauren and for anyone still interested enough to read this (Mom), here is the mess.

This place is like any other summer vacation spot one can find around the world. Warm weather, beaches, sunny skies, open sea with alternating tides and waves and all the recreational activities one can do with these things. Everything summertime you can imagine is here (except, of course, Philly water ice and soft pretzels). There are locals, super-obvious in their disdain for the tourists they’ve been waiting all year to take advantage of. There are the tourists, from all over Argentina, who I’m only just now beginning to be able to tell apart, but whom Fede can spot in a second. Then there’s me, half-awkward, half-exotic for being from someplace else altogether. Somehow this gives me a bit of an edge: I’m not the typical porteño from Buenos Aires and not just some other countryfolk from inside the country, less pretentious but still annoying to the people who live here year round. Truth is, no one knows quite what to make of me. One of my yoga students back in BsAs who is from Scotland called me courageous for coming to teach classes in Miramar. I didn’t understand completely until I showed up. The yoga students from Tucuman who took my first class ‘in Castellano’ said they enjoyed the class, but after some of my attempted explanations of postures (como un gato con muuuucho miedo!) truthfully probably think I’m a little bit off. The people in the supermarkets, when they hear my strange accent, look at me a sort of funny and speak extra slow (I’m still not sure if it’s because they think I am). The only person I’ve met so far who speaks English is an eccentric old man who says he used to write books for a living but now just writes for his friends. Quite an inspiration he was. He thought it was interesting that I’m trying to live here, but was more interested in my foreign dog.

Fede is having an easier time, even being an Argentine tourist. He’s taking photos for a surf school on the beach, a job he wrangled up within two days of our arrival. My classes are moving along slowly, but my Castellano is improving quickly for the sudden immersion. I’ve been practicing yoga regularly and reading both Spanish and English in large quantities with all the space and time. It’s turning out to be a mini-retreat of sorts, perhaps exactly what we need does come at just the right time. I’m finding myself writing lots more.

Just two weeks in, I sense a definite pulse that emanates uniquely from this place. I’m beginning to feel the vibe. The other afternoon, the hottest day of the summer so far, while reading in the shade of a tree by the small lake in Parque Mar, some smooth reggae reached out to me from across the water and had me tapping my toes and craving an ice cold beer. The beaches are mobbed with children playing and people vending all the things you want, and even some things you don’t, while hanging out at the beach. This afternoon, in THE empanada place on the peatonal, one of the cooks was drumming out the beat to a cumbia song blaring overhead on the metal cooktop with his metal spatulas. While I wouldn’t dare to call more attention to myself, I wanted to dance while I waited.

Miramar is very Latino for sure, but also distinctively Argentine. I’m awoken at 4am some nights by electronic music blaring from cars outside waiting to pick the neighbor UP to go out. My Spanish is good enough now that I confidently call out the window to tell the driver to turn it down in correct Castellano (though no self-respecting Argentine would ever think to do this, not even Fede’s 85-year-old abuelo). Fede laughs at this and says I’m getting old. Last night, another neighbor across the way kept us up as he told stories way too loud to whoever sat with him listening and laughing equally loud. Wide awake at 3am after too long trying to sleep, we went out walking in search of ice cream and actually found it. We were far from being the only people in the street. Many were just getting out.

There was barely a soul on the beaches today, those same ones usually packed like sardines. The weather is grey and windy, cool, the waves excitedly churning and applauding the coming of the full moon. You can feel the change about town as many of the January vacationers start the trek home and February rolls in. Fede came home from his morning run laughing about those few staring out at the too active sea, obviously either saying goodbye til next year or hallelujah after so long. We sidestepped the beach ourselves, opting to pass the day in the forest instead. As we drove back home and saw how the coast had taken herself back, at least for a day or two, I felt as grateful for the break from the quilombo as those newcomers who just arrived.

Argentina vs. Brasil

My first fútbol game in Argentina:

They INSISTED that I wear the shirt!

When they lost, they suggested that next time I wear a Brasilian jersey.

Happiness.

Buenos Aires - Good Airs is the literal translation and it doesn't take long to figure out why. Even for the gigantic city with all its concrete, metal and glass, the fast pace, and the crowded streets, there's a lilting energy and a warmth even on the chilliest winter day.

"You wanna see someplace new?" Fede asked yesterday morning. "Of course," I answered, thinking how at this point no matter which direction I walk when I leave the house I'm bound to see something new. I should have taken that translation literally too.

As I pressed the button for Belgrano on the ticket machine at the train station, I heard a sound I couldn't quite locate, a happy hum, steady and strong, though changing like a melody. I couldn't tell where it was coming from, but it seemed to be from a heavyset man, neatly dressed in not-so-pristine clothes. I wasn't sure until he stopped to help a woman who dropped something, said "De nada," when she thanked him, and promptly picked up the tune where he'd left off. I saw his face as we crossed the turnstile onto the platform, plump and radiating the same happiness I could feel in his voice. Fede walked past him and seemed intending to continue further on. I followed him, but reluctantly, and finally had to speak up. "I wanna go near that guy!" I said. "I like listening to him."
Fede's face was slightly disbelieving. "That guy?" he stuck his chin in the singing man's direction.
"Yeah, that guy! I like it," I told him.
"He's been around doing that for as long as I can remember," he said seeming just a little bit embarrassed by it, the way one would be in the presence of the neighborhood weird guy.
"But think how happy you'd have to be to sound like that, to sing like that," I said.
Fede said he's been doing the same for at least the past five years.

I listened and watched the jolly man pace back and forth along the platform, singing songs in both English and Spanish with his face all aglow as if there was nothing he'd rather be doing. Inspiring, I thought, that this man wakes up in the morning feeling so happy that he gets dressed and leaves his house just to spread that good feeling around. He didn't once put out his hand for money, though I'm sure people must be touched enough to offer now and then, but simply stepped onto the train car when the doors slid open, still singing, and disappeared inside. Imagine that.

We stepped onto the train ourselves and were greeted by a different kind of music. "Ah, there goes my favorite guy!" Fede exclaimed, "Listen!" Sitting sideways in an aisle seat a few rows away was a white-haired man with wire-rimmed glasses playing an accordian-like instrument with fervor. Fede explained that it was a bandonéon, an instrument typically found in tango, and that the song the man was playing is famous here. Almost every person on the car was smiling. Again, I was taken by the simplicity. Here was a man, dressed neatly, properly even, in button-down shirt and pressed slacks, who found something that he's good at, something that gives him joy, and though it may not be the most lucrative choice, opts to go out every day and do his work. He shares the joy, simple as that. But when the music stopped and the man began to talk, he told us all a story about a dream he had once. I tried to listen closely, but the noise of the train passing tracks made it hard to decipher the Castellano. Fede filled me in. Never a churchgoing man and not at all religious, he had the strangest dream once. In the dream was a man, wearing hardly any clothes, and standing like this (he held his arms out from his shoulders like a T). And even though he wasn't religious, he believed in what the man had said. The man told him he should go out and spread a message to everyone he sees. The man in the dream told him to pass it on that love will save the world. He thanked us all very much, put away his instrument with care, and came around with a woolen cap to collect whatever we could spare. I confess, as I dropped a peso in as he walked by, I felt the love.

We passed the afternoon in Recoleta, wandering through the artesan feria, playing tourist at the giant metal flower (donated to the city by Argentine architect Edouardo Catalano), and enjoying tasty beer with lunch at a local brewery. New scenery, new tastes, new place for sure, but nothing compared to the new perspective with which I returned home to La Lucila.

As we walked back through the city to the bus that would take us home, we crossed an intersection crowded full of people standing and watching. Fede grabbed my hand, walking faster, and said, “Come this way.” I followed like a lamb, ready to see whatever he wanted to show me at this point. “Do you know why we’re crossing?” he asked as we stepped up onto the curb. “Not really,” I replied. “Because of him,” he gestured toward a clown on the other side of the street. Awww, how cute, I thought, assuming he was avoiding the clown because he knows I’ve got a fear of them. But then, he climbed up onto a wall amid the crowd and said, “Come,” and offered his hand. This clown wasn’t a scary clown with big hair and big shoes and creepy grin. He was a cute clown in mime clothes and a beret. We watched as he improvised his act using whoever or whatever came near. He mimicked a grumpy woman walking from behind, another who walked as if on a catwalk. Then, acted as if he were pulling a man coming toward him on a rope. He stopped traffic and sat on cars pretending to think and just made light of whatever passed him by. This guy made a job out of just plain old having fun. Imagine that. Every person who meets you walks away with a smile.

What is it that prevents us all from finding freedom in life, the kind of freedom that gets you out there seeing from new angles, the kind that gets you spreading love and living from a place of deep down joy? The answer I’ve landed on after lots of contemplation is fear. Perhaps of something silly, unexplainable or rooted in some memory, like a clown, or crowds, or heights. Perhaps it’s fear of being different, a sideways look from a stranger. Could be a fear of trying something new. Maybe it’s a fear of falling.

Whatever the case, my suggestion is this:
Dare to do what makes you happy.

Hatha Yoga classes in La Lucila, All Levels, open to the public beginning tomorrow.

Tuesdays and Thursdays 7:30pm.

Visit: www.pacificyogaba.blogspot.com for more details.

Namaste!

Burbujas!

Last December, l went to a 5-year-old's birthday party on the beach. lt was everything you'd expect from a kid's party: chocolate cake, presents and party favors, plus the added bonus of almond & palm trees to climb and play under with the ocean just a short sprint away through the sand. lt was the kind of fiesta even the adults could enjoy. Every child was sent away with little bags of fun: spinning tops, candies, mini action figures, and ice cream cone-shaped bottles of bubbles suspended on strings long enough to hang around your neck. Before l left, as always one of the last to leave the beach, Katherine (the birthday boy's mom), giggling, game me my very own bottle of bubbles, which l didn't need to pretend at all was supercool. l put the string right over my head, unwound the cap and gave the wand a long blow in gratitude. Blue-tinted bubbles spewed out into the breeze and we all laughed out loud. Seeing how much l enjoyed them, Katherine offered me the last left-over bottle of red bubbles as well. Thinking maybe Karen would want them, l thanked her, said happy birthday to little Garrett, and headed home walking up the mountain, the bottle of blue bubbles bouncing against my chest as l hiked. With no shame whatsoever l confess to blowing them more than a few times along the way.

When l got home, Karen was sitting on the back balcony. She had her back to me and was staring out at our meager glimpse of ocean. l couldn't see her face, but from her posture could tell that she was feeling sad. l went around the side of her and sat down in one of the chairs. "Hey," l said cautiously. She looked like she'd been crying.
"Everything ok?" l asked.
"Not really," she replied and began telling me about what had her so down. As she was explaining, she noticed the blue plastic ice cream cone dangling around my neck (it wasn't exactly fashionable or small). She stopped mid-sentence, scrunched her eyebrows together and said, "What's that around your neck?"
"Bubbles," l told her, looking down and remembering they were there.
"Bubbles?" she asked, sounding a little bit like a sourpuss grown up. l blew bubbles at her. She just stared at me kind of like l was a little bit stupid. But when l fished in my handbag and said, "l brought some for you toooo-ooo," and revealed the red cone, her entire face lit up in a slightly reluctant smile. The latest drama temporarily forgotten, we sat on the back porch blowing streams of bubbles out across the backyard not saying a word. l have no idea what happened to Kar's bubbles after we moved apart and l moved in with Fede. (l hope she still blows them and smiles once in awhile.) Mine fell into the hands of 4-year-old Adira, our new downstairs neighbor's little girl.

She'd wander up to our place now and then and find whatever she could to play with. l saw the familiar brightening of face the first time she noticed the bubbles on the kitchen counter. "Burbujas!!!" she shrieked and started jumping up and down excitedly until l handed them down to her. She hopped around the house blowing and giggling as they fell down all around her until her father came up to collect her and bring her home. She cried so much when he told her she had to go that l let her keep the bubbles. Of course l knew they were in better hands, but still felt a small pang as l watched her go with them.

Months later in Nicaragua, walking down a street on the way back to our hotel in Masaya, l stopped in my tracks beside a sidewalk vendor. He had bottles of bubbles in all shapes and sizes dangling from strings amid suspended bags of chips and snacks. Fede followed my gaze and bright face and said, "Ohhh oookaaay," and asked the vendor to please take one down. l blew them down all three remaining blocks back to the hotel. Fede walked ahead, shaking his head slightly, but laughing.

Back in Manuel Antonio, l initiated a new house rule, applicable to everyone within its walls, as l put the new bubbles on the kitchen counter: lf you see them, you have to blow them. Since then, at least of few sprays of colorful fun have brightened up our every day. Josie's lightened up the mood with them during concentrated work sessions with Fede. Erin has blown her share while visiting for breakfast or lunch. My mom and dad showered us with some while they were in town. Even my friend Meg from home took her share of turns. Jessica's 7-year-old son Julian filled the apartment with bubbles, blowing through the wand with the bottle around his neck during a recent visit. Anyone who's eyes have fallen on them, no matter their age, status, or origin, has happily unwound the wand, shimmered bubbles all about and finished smiling.

This morning, l woke up and put on my glasses. The first thing l saw was that bottle of bubbles sitting on the bedside table. Before l even sat up, l blew a few clusters up into the air. As they rained down softly and popped landing on my skin, l wondered in my early morning haze, "What is it about bubbles that always makes you feel so happy?" Maybe it's that they very simply remind us of so much we already know. Floating spheres of different sizes, colors, and duration, all made of the same substance, drifting surrounded, impelled by, and filled with the same invisible stuff. They are beautifully contained space. And when they diminish, they're still exactly what they were, minus the shiny outer shell; you just can't see them anymore. They're like the giant planets and stars, microscopic molecules, or even us. maybe it's because they show us the truth of existence in a playful second. They remind us to enjoy the fleeting trip that we all have, the little things. They remove the weight and make us feel the lightness we are, all in a colorful instant.

l got out of bed and lit a candle on the balcony, got a cushion from the couch and sat down. l closed my eyes and breathed the fresh morning. At first, there were lots of thoughts, sensations, weight to wrestle with, and achy awarenesses. But the longer l just sat there breathing, l found the sameness between what was outside my bubble and within. l found the peace in that, the truth in the space, and then lifted up and floated off into my day.