With a rare Sunday to ourselves, the Bohemian and I take cues from the monk seals. Make our way to the warm sand, land, and move little. Let the trade winds cool us in the dappled shade of Naupaka branches.
Think little, do nothing. Rest.
Mary stops by to find our beached bodies. In her basket is lemonade in a mason jar and Dragonfruit with spoons. Seems this weekend’s farmer’s market was filled with harvest and she’s got plenty to share.
Our Dragonfruit at home (the story of their epic flower power is chronicled here) are still in process – we’ll see if they fruit.
But we get a taste on this relaxing Sunday. We breathe deeply. Imbibe the sweet. Let go and lounge.
Ten months to the date from when the Bohemian and I got married in the taro patch on the Garden Isle, I’m dreaming of a second wedding. As in, I’m having a dream in which we are in New York city readying ourselves for another wedding ceremony.
In the dream, it’s understood that the Bohemian and I are already married. For some reason, we’re doing an encore, as friends gather, dresses are donned, and the excitement builds with the approaching big day.
The build-up is a familiar feeling, as I still recall the eight months of to-do lists I amassed during the process of planning our real wedding celebration. I was involved in every detail, from the table cloths to the candle count. The Bohemian and I even grew the kale that was served at our buffet.
But in this dreamy New York city wedding, our big day had come and I realized I knew nearly nothing of the event. As I readied myself for the ceremony, it dawned on me that I had no idea where we were getting married.
When I asked someone (some unfamiliar character that seemed to be in charge, quite possibly the officiant) he told me that we were to be wed at St. Michael’s church. Now, in my entire life, I’ve spent all of five hours in NYC. And though I have no knowledge of such a place, I’m sure there is at least one St. Michael’s church in that city. In the dream I am surprised. The Bohemian and I are not religious. We don’t even go to church. As time moves closer to the ceremony, I’m wondering, “Why aren’t we getting married in Central Park?”
I wake with the odd feeling of being on the precipice of one of the most important events of my life, but completely ignorant of its detail. Disconnected. Out of control. And the fear that by leaving it in the hands of others, it won’t feel like my own.
I’ll admit, I’m a bit of a control-freak, though I’d like to think I’m a fairly effective one. Except when it comes to controlling my control-freakishness. It’s such a habit. And one with a good defense for sticking around. It gets stuff done, gosh darn it.
As a woman who was single for the first seven years of my son’s life, some do-it-yourself patterns have been engrained. But my son is nearly ten now, adventuring to stretch his wings. And I’m married, with a helpful partner, who is often there in quiet support if I’d just settle down enough to let myself be bolstered.
Life’s just one big event that will allow you all your planning. But it gives the final check-off, or, perhaps, just wads your list up altogether.
I don’t want to get married at St. Michael’s church in New York City in a dress I didn’t choose. But I also don’t want to try to box my life into the confines of my limited list of to-do’s. I want room for the unexpected, pleasant-kind of surprises. That’s where the magic lives.
In my waking world, I’m finding myself somewhere in between holding on and letting go. Sometimes it’s flowing like an inspired melody. Other times, I’m tripping all over myself.
I guess it’s all playing out in my dreams. My fears of letting others take the lead, only to find myself going down the wrong path. But I guess that’s the risk of love in the concrete jungle. Just a part of life in the big city.
Addendum
Simply curious, an online search brings me to the website of one St. Michael’s church in Manhattan. Apparently, a rather historic one known for its Tiffany glass and pipe organs. It’s been standing since 1807 and seems quite welcoming.
This Episcopal church has a website, which kindly states, “We are a community of great diversity seeking to offer God’s radical hospitality to all who enter our doors. Wherever you come from, whatever your age, whomever you love, however you believe, you are always welcome here.”
School’s back in session and Jeb and I are finding our way into the routine. This means a drop at the bus stop before 7am and the chance for me to walk Moodah the dog before getting into my own work for the day.
Still dialing in our auto-pilot mode, yesterday was a bit of an oversleep. Jeb loaded in the car with one shoe on and one in hand. We were out of milk and I had not yet had my coffee.
Moodah paced inside the car between front seat and back, not sure where to go in the excitement generated by Jeb’s encouragement, “Just go Mom, we’ll miss the bus…just go.”
We made it to the bus stop just in time for loading. I breathed a sigh of relief and defiantly rearranged morning priorities. Choosing coffee over exercise, I pulled into the parking lot of our local convenience store, which happens to be across the street from the yoga studio where I stopped practicing about six months ago (I’ll spare you my reasoning here).
At 6:45am, the mini mart is full of early-bird shoppers and the yogis will soon begin sun salutations. I tell myself there is no need for non-yoga guilt, but can’t help but feel a slight impulse to slip quickly into the market, unseen.
A van towing sea kayaks pulls up next to the store, and I try to make it inside before the stream of sleepy-eyed tourists in day-glow rash guards stream inside. No such luck. I don’t beat the locals either. When I enter the mini-mart, there is already a line at the register of men buying styrofoam cups filled with coffee and packs of cigarettes.
They do sell organic milk, so I grab the last one on the shelf and take my place in line behind the guy in a t-shirt, jeans and scruffy work boots. The mini-mart is abuzz. People from town recognize each other and talk story between the chip aisles. The touring kayakers wander the shelves looking for anything familiar.
The line moves and the man in front of me puts down on the counter his Spam musubi (it’s kind of like a Spam sushi roll), cup of mini-mart coffee, Bud Light in an extra tall can, and asks for menthol cigarettes. It’s not yet 7am.
Non-yoga guilt is given new perspective.
photo courtesy of Mac Walsh
If I’m completely honest, I would have to admit that when I see my fellow patron’s purchase, a judgment comes to mind. So quickly these thoughts pop into the head. But after I paid for my milk and went towards my car, I realized I was judging myself, as well.
And even if I know I shouldn’t care, I’m thinking that others may be judging me too.
Because, there I am, walking out of the convenience store, going home for coffee instead of doing my morning practice. And in my hand, a half-gallon of (gasp!) dairy product. No bonus points for organic when your yoga instructor’s vegan. I can see those flexible yogi necks shaking heads in disapproval, as they catch a glimpse of me through their steamy windows.
There she is, she used to practice…looks like she fell off the wagon.
Bud Light or milk for breakfast. We all get choices in life’s spectrum.
That morning, I had my reasons for my choosing. Life will have natural consequences for my actions, guaranteed. So, who’s to judge?
In the end, I got my coffee and Moodah and I took an abbreviated walk, where we both soaked in some Vitamin D and fully respirated.
One could say it’s all a yoga, really. Even the early morning mini-mart scene. All the humans doing their do. Actions, reactions. Choices made in every moment.
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