Vichara (Reflection)

I am drifting through a dream-space, untethered and uncomfortably weightless.  Practice is the only thing that makes sense, the hours spent on the mat the only time I feel fully formed, and my urge to exist only in this place of order -- breath, bandhas, dristhi -- grows stronger every day.  The practice permeates my dreams.  The deafening sensation of the backbends has triggered a pranic tinnitus, a high-pitched buzz or hum, incessant and to which I am the only witness.

Nerves are raw.  Sleep is brief.  The blind plunge, backward and head-first, awakens an animal alertness.  The spine is suddenly expressive and I am made aware of a disturbing depth of structural discontent, stemming from the right side of the sacrum.  The base, the root.  It calls for realignment, real change.  It draws me in and yet I am profoundly disconnected.

I've always felt monasticism would suit me well.  The misanthrope in me excites at the idea of freedom from interpersonal relationships, which inspires a suspicion that perhaps hermetic life is not the most appropriate arrangement -- just a fantasy of isolationist bliss, the product of a young life surrounded by siblings, wanting nothing more than to be left alone, to serve my purpose from this quiet place.  But, somehow, I've always known this was never meant to be.

And so I sit, perched on the lip of this vacuum.  I see the incongruence of the present.  I observe the unseen forces bumping headlong into one another with the understanding that this cannot continue and I wait.  I contemplate the coming change as if it were a choice.  Amid the winds, I find my gaze.  And breathe.  And breathe.  And breathe.

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