Gratitude

The act of leaving inspires so much: so much sadness, so much joy, and, hopefully, so much love. Take an already full experience and add to it the heartbreak of watching a beautiful land go up in flames and I, for one, am left with an opportunity of infinite fathoms to reflect.

I have been blessed to have lived in Flagstaff, a city I have appreciated for its community, beauty, quirkiness, and more, for seven years. Leaving has been bittersweet and a practice of awareness regarding the journey, versus the destination. Choices we make in life can confound us, liberate us, stymie us….But through the thick of it, maybe we can remember to trust. To trust that the dharma of our lives will lead us where we’re meant to be, regardless of the “smaller” choices that can overwhelm our daily lives. This is not to promote passivity, but rather to trust in the natural current of life: when we find there is an imbalance of so much effort and so little surrender, we owe it to ourselves to consider why.

So, relinquishing my efforts to flow along the current of my life meant uprooting 7 years to plant roots in the desert (another place of extraordinary beauty). Despite my trust in this process, I have found myself facing attachments: to my previous way of life, to relationships, to the studio.

And now as I take a seat on the porch, I look past the sweet, syrupy colors of the sunset to the North, to another place I love. How I want to see it, though, and the truth of its current condition seem at odds. I think of people I know and their fear for their homes, animals, and more; I think of the land’s natural inhabitants—from the elk to the caterpillars and am sad for the lives and homes they lost; I think of the soil that will take inestimable years to heal, and I find it hard not to weep.

The journey of our yoga practice teaches us that balance is a constant process, not a static place: through beauty there may be immeasurable pain. How can we adjust to find equilibrium and harmony in the midst of this human-made tragedy? Maybe the answer is gratitude for the land that has been, and trust that through its own process it too will heal. I read a poem the other day and was struck by the relevance of the last stanza to our Flagstaff forest:

“… we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us like the earth
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is”—“Thanks” by W.S, Merwin

Maybe sometimes we need to remember to say thank you—for everything and nothing all at once—a practice in itself of Samadhi. Thank you, Flagstaff, for your beauty, pain, sunshine and dark days. Thank you for being a place worthy of sacrifice.

--Autumn