Do you know where you are going?

Our lives can change in a split second. Don't fool yourself by thinking you know where you are going...


It was a sunny day. I had finished work with the school district for the summer. I had a few glorious days of complete quiet and alone time at my friends farm. I was rested. I had finished my initial weekend of thai yoga training and had completed ten massages in a week. If you had asked me that morning what the summer was going to look like, I thought I knew. I thought I was going to spend the summer practicing yoga, teaching yoga, practicing thai yoga massage and completing my thai yoga massage certification. It was going to be a summer with lots of rest and relaxation. There can be such arrogance in that type of knowing. Or is it ignorance?

I walked out of the house and got into my car. I had a little discussion in my head about which route to take to meet Vince for lunch. I took the route that I don’t usually take. I am driving along and everything changed (see previous essay regarding this subject). All at once I saw blue, felt the impact into the driver's side door and air bags deployed. I knew a few things very clearly. I knew to turn the car off. I knew to try to climb out of the passenger side door. I knew my hand and my hip hurt. Everything seemed to be moving very slowly.

A kind teenager helped me out the door and walked me to the curb. I saw people running to get me a chair. Someone helped me lie flat on the ground. A woman went and got my purse and then my phone. She came and sat with me. She helped me call vince, then calling vince for me. She talked about the Ganesh on my bag. An off duty EMT stopped by and checked on me. The Ambulance came. The police came. I was on a board with my head strapped. People carried me to the ambulance, police were asking me questions. I was breathing. I was breathing.

Inside the ambulance the technician put in an IV and then we sat, or laid, waiting. I don’t know if I was there for hours or minutes. I could feel myself begin to feel panicky. I could feel my breath get shallow and tears roll down my cheek. The EMT was doing something technical somewhere near my feet and asked me if I could calm down. I began to practice three part breathing. I focused on the up and down movement of my belly. I felt the breath begin to slow. There were moments where it was as though I was watching from above. The ambulance began to move. I could hear the sirens and feel the bumps. Lots of bumps. I began to realize how I had completely surrendered. I felt such gratefulness for the people who had been helping me.\

As I was carried in the emergency room I watched people watch me. Lots of people came in the room. Lots of people left the room. Everyone left the room. I was alone, strapped to a board in a cold room.

It seemed as if I had two choices, my monkey mind or my breath. I returned to my breath. I heard someone come in and begin typing. I couldn’t see who it was, but I knew I wanted someone to stand with me, to be with me. I asked. A nurse came in and I was able to ask for her to stand with me. She left the room. I returned to my breath. I focused on my breath for what seemed like forever. Everytime the mind began to wonder away from my breath, I b egan to feel panicky and upset. As soon as I would return to my breath, the calm would return.

Vince arrived. He saves me sometimes. Saves me from getting stuck in the temporary madness in my head. I needed saved from the spinning about what it would mean to have a broken hand and an injured hip. I began conscioulsy trying to relax my body. There were really clear moments recognizing that I could breathe into areas that felt tight. Once they told me I could move around, I began stretching, pointing, flexing. I could feel how the body had tensed and I wanted to begin to open those spaces. Xrays and wrapping a broken hand.

My parents arrived. I walk out with a broken hand. A broken right hand. As if we need reminders that we only get one body.

I saw the car. I knew the accident was serious, I was in it. When I saw the car I went directly into memory and into «what could have happened.» What use is «what could have happened?» Of course the mind wants to naturally take us there, it's juicy material to gnaw on. But is it useful?
I rested and wore the plastic crown Vince gave me. My hand was in a hard cast. I listended to music I found during yoga teacher training that I have consistently found to soothe me. I laid on the couch. I stretched and breathed while lying on my back, I stretched and breathed sitting up. I asked for what I needed, which sometimes hasn't been easy for me. I felt out of it and teary. I felt calm and centered. I felt needy and scared. I couldn't drive. I couldn't write. I couldn't type. I couldn't dry my hair or shave my left armpit.

I taught Mysore style yoga in a completely new way. I had to find more precise language. I couldn't do physical adjustments. A really fabulous teacher in Minnesota teaches from his wheelchair. Attachments to all kinds of ideas began to fall away. Some after I resisted, argued with reality and suffered. Some fell away effortlessly.

Vince and I went to my appointment with the surgeon. I was allready a week into my «six to eight week recovery» period. I felt confident he was going to take a look and confirm what the emergency room doctor had said. My expectation was that in six weeks I would be up and running as good as new. It hadn't occurred to me that he would say anything else. He did. I needed surgery and the sooner the better. Then the six to eight week recovery period would start. Or maybe it allready had. Maybe I had allready started to recover from my expectations and my beliefs and my habitual way of living from my head and living in «what's next» rather than right now.

On the way into the hospital before the surgery, Vince and I chanted the Gayatri Mantra several times. It was either fill the space with something that connected me to something higher or listen to that unbearable chatter appearing in my head. A friendly ashtangi yogi appeared as my surgical nurse. When I saw her it was as if I had won the lottery. The connections we make with other people are priceless.

The surgery went well. Following the surgery I was really sick from the anesthesia. I was completely helpless. I had to rely on other people. Lots of other people. I had to rely on my breath. Lots of breath. It is what we can count on while this body is working. The breath is there, in the ambulance, in surgery, on our mat.

As I look back over the last eight months I have had steady practice recognizing how I have needed to rely on other people and how I have relied on the non-physical aspects of yoga practice. I have learned first hand (so to speak) that the body heals on it's own time table and we either listen and get out of the way or hinder the process. I have learned that our lives change, our bodies change, our schedules change, our minds change, our emotions change and our yoga practice changes. I have learned that we might start the day thinking we are leaving for lunch and we might not make it there. I have learned that I never ever really know how the day is goiing to to or where I am headed. I have learned that I am not this body, but rather what is aware of this body. I have learned that never changes.