An Ordinary Kind of Day

Today was an ordinary kind of day. Woke up, recorded anything I could recall from my dreams, fed the dog, changed clothes, and went for a long walk in an undeveloped wooded neighborhood near my home. It was cold but still – no wind - so the walk was pleasant. A dear friend joined me so it was a “chatty” walk whereas most of the others are done in silence attending to the sensory experience, or at most, chanting. It was good, though, because she gave me some good insights around something I’m frustrated by and trying to move through in a graceful way. Ah, the wisdom of an outside perspective…

I spent the afternoon running errands here and elsewhere, responding to emails, and carving out 20 minutes to have some lunch; actually, by the time I ate, it was closer to supper time. My evening was focused on teaching a kundalini yoga class for post-holiday-junk-food detoxifying…just what we all needed. And now, here I am, piled up on my sofa, dog at my feet, cats curled up in their beds beside me. Cozy is how I would describe this moment in my life.

My life… moving forward quicker than I can track it; minutes tick-tocking by invisibly, counting down my remaining time here… tick tock tick tock tick tock. This is a moment to savor, yes. I’m finding that every moment of my life is a moment to savor, even the uncomfortable ones. Like tonight – I developed a migraine before my yoga class. It was bad enough to make me nauseous. I chose to teach anyway, through the discomfort. I’ve never done that before. My migraines are usually spent piled up in bed, house dark and quiet, wet rag on my forehead, praying to fall asleep and wake up pain-free.

Yet Levine teaches to open beyond moments of discomfort and to be fully present with “what is.” He says to call it “the pain” rather than “my pain.” So I did. I taught yoga with “the pain” and “the nausea” and “the sensitivity to sound and light” rather than my, my, my discomfort. This simple practice allowed me to put some distance between what my body was experiencing and what I truly am, which is something beyond this body. It allowed me to hold the discomfort as just another sensory experience, albeit an uncomfortable one, without identifying with it. And it was a great opportunity to give my body the space to practice “allowing” through whatever sensory experience is happening, despite its flavor.

Because the question is: “How will I die?” And the answer is: “I don’t know.” I might die in a comfortable way, but I might die in an uncomfortable way. If my body has no anchor for how to move through “the discomfort” gracefully, what will it do if it’s dying in an uncomfortable way? How will it move through “the dying?”

©2010 Cecilia L. Zúñiga. A Year To Live. All Rights Reserved. Reprints, copies or reproductions of any kind must be accompanied by copyright credit line.