This morning I was walking to breakfast
and noticed two women hula hooping on the lawn,
their round bodies moving in circles
like the sea birds overhead.
I smiled at the sight of it,
but then immediately felt guilty
for being in such a Utopia
when there is so much wrong in this world –
so much pain, and suffering, and loss.
Who am I to be here?
I thought to myself.
Enjoying the sound of the ocean
crashing against the cliffs
in a steady rhythm
that makes it impossible for me
to ignore the similarity to my own breath –
the inhale and exhale,
the rise and fall of my chest.
A reminder that we are part of nature –
no different except for
the delusion of being separate.
And who am I to be enjoying these foods
that have been harvested from these very grounds,
bursting with flavor, vitality and life?
To be soaking my body in hot springs,
releasing tensions stored over years spent
trying to do everything just right,
as if that would keep me safe,
or protect me from my own mortality,
to have something to show for my existence –
proof that I tried.
And who am I to be here?
Having authentic conversations with strangers
that feel as familiar as longtime friends
if only because their hearts are open
and there is nothing on their agendas
other than connection –
to self, others, and Truth.
To be awestruck by sunrises and sunsets,
and gazing up in wonder
at the starry-filled skies
that I’m gifted with each night.
Playing my guitar to a crackling fire,
surrounded by attentive eyes and smiles –
allowing my voice to be heard.
Absorbing wisdom from teachers
of mediation and yoga,
who have decades of experience
learning how to feel, and be.
Shouldn’t I have worked harder?
or done more to earn this?
Shouldn’t I have arrived exhausted,
depleted, and desperate for restoration?
Shouldn’t I feel more lost or confused,
to justify my seeking?
I am having a wonderful time,
but there is a nagging voice in my head,
telling me that I’m being indulgent,
for experiencing so much joy,
and bliss.
Just this afternoon I was having
quite possibly the best massage of my life,
and with each stroke of this man’s hand
I could feel my body parts integrate,
relaxation gradually enveloping me
until I became a wet noodle,
allowing him to move my limbs
without any anticipation whatsoever –
no desire for control.
He wrapped me in a sheet,
indicating the end of the session,
and I mouthed “thank you,”
trusting he could read lips.
Before leaving the room
he leaned forward
and whispered in my ear,
“You deserve it.”