Every year when the daffodils start to bloom I think of the line by Anais Nin: “And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud, was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” There's a point in a yoga practice as well when the risk to remain tight and protected is more painful than the risk it takes to let go, start fresh and navigate with fierce vulnerability in the soft brilliance of our own deepest wisdom. Yet, when that blossoming happens it doesn't all happen in one glorious moment. It happens slowly, unraveling layers of color to meet the world. The incremental process is necessary to build a sustainable foundation that can face any challenge with grace and the courage to remain open—not just visit that space from time to time.
Like the daffodils that press their way through the earth, slowly unravel, finally lift their heads over a span of many days, and then, inevitably...it snows. Every year this happens in my garden; and the flowers do not retract. They don't fall under the weight, complain or reach for their bud casings. They are strong in their unwavering willingness to greet the world in whatever form it presents.
This happens often during growth and expansion. When we finally decide to open, to drop our protective armor, the very thing that would validate protection occurs. This is my favorite part of the practice! It forces us to choose to remain open, not because it's easy or comfortable, but because there's no other way to truly live. It becomes more of a risk to remain cut off from any part of our being, than it is to let go and remain open to the whole spectrum of experience.
In a yoga practice we work to build authentic connection within ourselves, and our external environment, so that we can also maintain an accessible pathway to our true selves in any environment, any posture, any challenge. The daffodils, for me, are a daily reminder that it's more important to live a life that is open and free, than to hold tight to the walls of a blind room that may never know the beauty of yellow, the touch of snow or the gift of breath.
May we all keep working with intense tapas: vigor, drive and discipline, to achieve a greater capacity to remain open.
Like the daffodils that press their way through the earth, slowly unravel, finally lift their heads over a span of many days, and then, inevitably...it snows. Every year this happens in my garden; and the flowers do not retract. They don't fall under the weight, complain or reach for their bud casings. They are strong in their unwavering willingness to greet the world in whatever form it presents.
This happens often during growth and expansion. When we finally decide to open, to drop our protective armor, the very thing that would validate protection occurs. This is my favorite part of the practice! It forces us to choose to remain open, not because it's easy or comfortable, but because there's no other way to truly live. It becomes more of a risk to remain cut off from any part of our being, than it is to let go and remain open to the whole spectrum of experience.
In a yoga practice we work to build authentic connection within ourselves, and our external environment, so that we can also maintain an accessible pathway to our true selves in any environment, any posture, any challenge. The daffodils, for me, are a daily reminder that it's more important to live a life that is open and free, than to hold tight to the walls of a blind room that may never know the beauty of yellow, the touch of snow or the gift of breath.
May we all keep working with intense tapas: vigor, drive and discipline, to achieve a greater capacity to remain open.
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