Flexibility has to be practiced continuously. Once it's lost, it has to be slowly and painfully coaxed back--you cannot stay supple and fluid without frequently being stretched to your edge. Over time, enduring small amounts of discomfort without resistance and attending to the unexpected feelings by staying present and breathing better prepares us for when we are confronted with more intense injury or stress.
While I could be talking about the physical body--as this is certainly true in a physical sense--it's something I've been processing on a spiritual level.
We all like to be in control. We make plans and don't like it when they go awry. That's natural, but as certain as we are about our futures, we ignore the fact that
change itself is one of the only constants in life. It's something we know in our deeper consciousness, but we also spend more time preparing our meals, planning our vacations, and saving for retirement than we do preparing our hearts to be open and ready for the unexpected joys and sorrows of life.
Over the summer, being at home after living overseas for a year, there were a lot of things that I started to think about, given that perspective. On a long road trip back to Iowa from Colorado, my mom and I kept ourselves awake to drive by listening to a sermon by Erwin McManus of Mosaic Church in LA. He spoke of being a child in Florida and experiencing a major hurricane destroy his town. After the storm, as he wandered through the rubble, he saw that the tall, ancient, strong oak trees--often respected as symbols of quiet stability--had snapped and succumbed to the winds. The palm trees, however, had survived. They were bent and distorted from the forceful gales, their long thin trunks nearly horizontal to the ground. But after the hurricane, they grew. They survived and they grew, even with their pretzeled shapes.
I thought of that image of the palm tree earlier this week, on my way to school. I had left home later than I meant to, but still needed to stop and get some lunch en route. The vegetarian buffet where I usually get food if I need something quick was closed, so my next stop was an organic grocery that sometimes has spinach noodles and peanut sauce in to-go bowls.
Mei you. ("Don't have!") What they
did have, however, was a new shipment of fresh-baked breads, and a shop assistant who spoke enough English to totally chat me up. She proceeded to tell me every ingredient in each variety of bread--either hoping to make a sale or just practice her English. I tried to be patient but knew I needed to find something to hold me over all afternoon so I wouldn't get cranky with the monkeys (kids). So I grabbed a bottle of pomegranate juice and a small cup of freshly made yogurt, and politely declined from buying bread containing some sort of dried Chinese berry that is very good for "total systems health."
Shoving the yogurt cup in the side pocket of my backpack, I hopped on Bluebell (my bike) and pedaled like the wind. One more stop before work--a caffeine dosage in the form of green tea. After ordering my cup, I slid my backpack to one side to pull out my wallet. As I did, the yogurt cup popped out of its pocket and the lid flew off. A spray of white yogurt splattered around me--on my pants, my black Columbia rain jacket, the counter, the floor, a nearby table, and on a large gold 2-in-1 fountain/bamboo holder shaped like a Buddha. Oh, great. I apologized profusely as the two women behind the counter quickly assured me that it was no problem, rushing to get mops and rags, muffling their amused grins as they set to work cleaning up the probiotic explosion that was meant to be my lunch. One of the women started dabbing at the yogurt on my pants, working her way up to blot shamelessly away at my yogurt-covered chest. I stood there helpless, a bit surprised that she hadn't handed me the cloth to let me get that part myself! I continued to apologize and try to help, but they handed me my tea and shooed me out of the shop. Two minutes later, I'd made it to school, parked and locked my bike, and went to the front desk for the mandatory temperature check and dose of hand sanitizer. Sina, the teacher on duty, greeted me and then asked, "What's that stuff on your nose?" Apparently the tea-shop woman had missed a spot!
The rest of the day went pretty much the same--the kids exhausted me, and when I left that night for my 25-minute bike ride home, it was pouring rain. Those may seem like little things, but after many days and weeks and months of "little" things like that, you get to a point where you have to check in with yourself--remind yourself to breathe. That happened to be the day I remembered the thing about the palm trees. I realized that if I don't want to snap in the next storm, I'd better resolve to practice patience, gratitude, and flexibility
here, now, and in the little things. We really have very little control in life. That's much easier for me to be aware of in Taiwan than it is in Iowa, and I will treat that awareness as a gift rather than an inconvenience.
Living in another country stretches muscles you didn't know you had.
Patience takes on a new dimension of meaning, and an ability to "go with the flow," no matter what, is essential to sanity. Being home for three months, I deliciously let those muscles atrophy. The part of my brain that had turned on a heightened awareness to function while I was linguistically isolated and feeling culturally backwards took a nice, long nap.
I'm getting back in the swing of things now--reaching for my toes (and beyond, some days), breathing through the tests of patience, and reminding myself to go with the flow. Adding "Palm-Tree-in-a-Hurricane" pose to my daily asanas, I smile and wipe the yogurt off my nose.
Pin the nose on the pumpkin... and that blindfold was not smelling so good by the end of the day!
