Powerful verbs. Short sentences.
We ran. Many of our evenings start that way. Now Yoav’s cutting up the rest of our green cabbage. We can’t find his chef knife—a gift from years back—so we’re making due with a serrated ceramic one. Also green. Small. Silly.
We’re nearly to Mammoth. Just outside Buckeye hot springs. I teach tomorrow mid-afternoon. I’m anticipating a class of a few. This project’s gonna take time. I’m glad the cloud’s not hanging around as of late; I need the comfort of easy happiness to cushion what’ll be a lasting fall. That is, settling down.
But I’ve got time. We’ve got time. To make it work. Yoav’s the most supportive human breathing, and I’m a fool if I don’t honor that devotion with a solid attempt at my own. There’s a concept in the yoga tradition I quite like: Dharma. One’s calling, you could say. The same idea appears in Christianity, and most other religions, though it’s not given such consequence, or maybe not so much personality. In yoga, dharma’s our highly specific, unique path—our gift to the world. Our destiny as a human in a world of other humans. What we were shaped by nature and our past to do. The deepest planted seed in our soil, or the most fertile, sturdiest of our branches. That which, when we do it in a way that feels genuine, there’s immediate and lasting fulfillment; when we don’t do it, there’s a void.
We’re going back to Bishop so I can further explore and refine my dharma. So I can teach dance in the way I’d like to the audience I’d like (as far as I currently can say) in a space we have developed community and in which there’s potential for expressive/movement arts to bloom. Of course, plans will shift, morph. Of course there are epiphanies awaiting behind misshapen trees and rocks and weird buildings, and in all those shadows they throw on familiar alleyways and sidewalks. I imagine coming upon those with equal part shock, and that sinking feeling I knew it all along. Of course, Ranae! of course. Why couldn’t I have had more foresight this time around? So says the person who overthinks everything and inevitably, because the world is random and life is cruel, fails at anticipating much.
I realize this sounds sad. I’m not sad. I’m jaded, and anxious. But more than that, I’m passionate, and I’m so in love with dance I sometimes even wonder at the why of it, the how, the for how long. Surely such a drive can’t be sustainable. There’s no point, really. Then I remember it’s never had a point, really. It’s point is it doesn’t need one. It’s self-sustaining because it’s life itself. When it got a designated point was when it got restricted, constrained, less fulfilling, then exhausting. That’s when the cloud rolls in and there’s no horizon or sunrise. Everything’s washed out and dried up. The cloud’s dry, after. For those who think depression’s rain, it’s not. Rain’s just an afterthought, and a redeeming one. A reminder skin still pricks and renewal’s real.
It’s the clouds. They cram in and obliterate all prospects of transformation. They convince you there’s little beyond than more of the same. And when you get out, if you don’t remember what it’s like, you’ll end up helpless when they come in at night. Before dawn’s their favorite ETA. You’re most vulnerable then, thinking fits of dreams will bleed into a bright, buoyant day.
Nah. If you know they like to hang over, best be ready.