by Lori Deschene

Meaning is not what you start with but what you end up with. ~Peter Elbow

I’d gotten these bed-raiser platforms to make my twin seem less sad like being higher from the ground made it more respectable.

It wasn’t even its size that made it seem pathetic; it was more that it consumed the majority of my apartment. And by apartment, I mean room.

I moved to New York without a plan. I’d majored in theatre, but I had no desire to audition. After being a large fish in a small pond in high school, I found it difficult adapting to intense competition. And eventually my perfectionism trumped my dreams of performing.

So I went to NYC, blew through my savings on a work-from-home network-marketing business, then moved into a cheap single-room occupancy building much like a dorm, except for addicts, former homeless people, and little girls lost, like I was.

I’d been working part-time as a telemarketer for a software company for several months. I didn’t love sales and marketing, but I did well in both those industries. No matter how I felt inside, I could always smile long enough to convince someone to give me their money.

There didn’t seem to be any good reason to stay in New York. I hadn’t yet learned to let people in, so I spent a lot of time by myself. I wasn’t doing anything compelling anything I couldn’t do in Massachusetts, where my family was. And I wasn’t really doing well at the whole functioning-independently thing.

I stayed for one simple reason: it felt better to be alone in a big city, where I might someday stumble into a life that looked good on paper, than home with my family, who I feared I’d let down. By not becoming an actress. By not making lots of money. By not being just plain better than who I was.

I needed to find something I could do just for me. Not to prove myself, or impress other people just something that helped me feel good about who I was, regardless of my life circumstances. If I could find that while living in a 7×7 cockroach-infested room and working a job I didn’t like, I knew I’d have an anchor that would help me all through life.

I saw an ad on Craigslist for free yoga classes right down the street. All I’d have to do is volunteer behind the desk once a week for three hours. I’d done a few classes before I left home, and I remember feeling a sense of calm I’d never really felt before.

I responded to the ad with the type of honesty usually reserved for journaling and anonymous online commenting:

I’ve had a hard time liking myself through the years. I’ve beaten myself up, and isolated myself, and felt bad in every way possible. I’m struggling here in New York, and I’m not sure why I’m here. I just know I want to feel. I want to do better.

I took a couple yoga classes before, and I remember feeling a profound shift in how I felt about myself and saw the world. I don’t have a lot of money, and I don’t have a lot in my life. I would be forever grateful for the opportunity to be part of your studio.

One week later I was volunteering behind the desk. One month later I could do a headstand and had four friends who could do one, too. One year later I rolled up my yoga mat and left New York to travel cross-country on a promotional tour.

I’ve been to almost every major city. I’ve stayed in hotels, motels, and hostels; I’ve lived in rooms, apartments, and houses. I’ve gotten great jobs, and lost great jobs. I’ve been lonely and I’ve been loved.

I’ve handled some things well and some things poorly, but I can say with absolute certainty I’ve done everything better than I would have if I did not practice yoga. It’s not even that yoga itself was the answer it’s finding something, anything that’s yours.

We all have paths we take that involve different people, dreams, achievements, and situations. I’ve found it’s a lot easier to risk failing and losing when I have something I love that I know I can’t lose.

If I go for a job and don’t get it, I have yoga. If I do get it, I have yoga. And when it’s over and it’s time to move on, I still have my practice and that sense of identity.

Everything external eventually fades and I don’t think that’s such a bleak realisation. Knowing nothing lasts forever makes a tough time bearable and a joyous time more valuable. Time, with it’s beginnings and endings, gives life shape.

It’s up to us individually to give it meaning.

What’s your sense of bliss and balance in a world that’s always changing?

This post is republished with permission. Find more of Lori Deschene’s writing at tinybuddha.com. Read the original post here