Another year. Could it get better? Probably not. Just escaped to the mountains, solidified a friendship, wandered and wondered and sang. A lot. Missing some pieces, but the pieces don’t matter. Nothing does, really. Which is why everything is so beautiful. Sitting on my porch in the rain waiting for the next thing, which probably promises to be awesome. This is the year of music and art and love. Of saying yes when i really don’t know. This is the year of all forward and no looking back. Grateful to have finally remembered, and aware that I might forget soon.

Sometimes shit is just soooo bittersweet. 

I spent some quality time with my family over the holidays. This usually means sitting on the kitchen floor. My family has no idea how to deal with anything, but if you sit on the floor, my  mom won’t ask you to move. She will just work around you, and eventually everyone will be on the floor, making room for whatever you have going on. 

We don’t know the answers, we just make room. 

I used to think this was a problem, until I realized that there are no right answers. You just make room and take time, and wait. Eventually you will get your sparkle back. Eventually it will rain. Eventually you will wake up in the morning with something you really feel like doing. 

I came home feeling rested, and ready, and then found out that someone I love had passed away. Not someone I see or talk to every day, but someone I love none the less. Things move and change, and they never stop. None of this is new information, just something to keep making room for. 

Sometimes it just keeps coming and flowers grow as animals die, people die as the sun comes up. I come home from work with the weight of grief as the world blooms, and I sleep while the world turns. 

Rain and my rib. Both jump in and out all out of place and are the only things that make me stay home. For days and days, and its the only time I don’t feel guilty. 

That and this new tattoo.  A heart chakra. Predictably, over my heart. That shit hurt. While it was happening, and still. Although, it seems as though I like to exacerbate things and piss them off as much as possible. Like maybe they will combust, and all of the extra sadness and love that is stored there will finally ring out in a yoga pose, and all I will feel is bliss. My heart is still healing. Itchy, and painful, and ever complaining, I can’t help but remember. 

I remember what is it like to love, although that behavior is not allowed anymore. Being open and without expectation might be painful, but empty is easier than full. Cold is easier to heal than heat. 

Every song still holds too much meaning. Every person’s story represents my own. This incredibly self centered grief has gotten ridiculous, but seems to be moving at its own pace. Not to be rushed, aware that it is not cute anymore, it will not leave until it has had its way with me. 

So…I am grateful for the rain, the misplaced rib, the pain. It gives me a reason to hide here until it is safe to come out again. 

You love until you don’t. You try until you can’t. You laugh until you cry. Cry until you laugh, and everyone must breathe until their dying breath.

This is how it works. You look inside your soul. You take the things you like, and try to love the things you took. Then you take that love you made, and put it into some…someone else’s heart, beating someone else’s blood.

My heart is still broken. In case anyone wanted an update.

What do you want? Easy question. Late night dead honest answer: I want someone who continues to want to talk to me.
His response: write that down. Sometimes you’re so incredibly honest.
I love you.
You’d better.
This is what’s happening. Someone tells me a little something that I know is true. You’ll never get over it…you’ll learn to live with it. It’s ok to be a girl. You learned that lesson because of you. Not because of anyone else.
For right now I might just write down what other people say, so I don’t lose it. Someday I’ll start writing what I say again.

Mysore was beautiful, and I left on day 8 for Bangalaru. I had no idea what was in store for me as i escaped the house I was staying in without saying goodbye. The landlords had been making up excuses of all kinds for me to have to pay them more money as the days went on. My cab driver, of course, did not want to drive to Bangalore. This makes no sense to me, but is perfectly normal there. After much ado about nothing, he agreed to take me instead of pass me off to his friend. (Have I mentioned that he was already paid for the trip)??

Travelling by car in India is thrilling for me. I am still in love with all the sights and random craziness happening on the side of the road, and found that my iphone can actually focus and take pictures quite well from a moving vehicle. It is scary however, because the driver almost never speaks much english, never gives a straight answer, and I am without wifi and a working phone. Luckily, Indians never seem to mean harm to anyone, so although safety sometimes felt like an issue, I doubt it ever was. 

Bangalore is huge (to me anyway, to Indians, it is considered small). Traffic is even more nuts than in Mysore, and the pollution almost did me in. Apparently I am very sensitive. 

Here is where I met Dinesh. Dinesh grew up in Chennai, which is about 3 hours east of Bangalore, and went to school with my best friend in Fargo, ND. He moved back here about 6 years ago. I emailed him prior to my trip to see if he wanted to play tour guide. I have only ever met him once, and that was 10 years ago. I feel like I am getting crazier by the day.

Turns out, he and I were fast BFF’s. Our connection with Liv, my best friend of 29 years, and his of 10, gave us a really good foundation to get to know each other. I think he was happy to have a fresh breath of America, and I was delighted in everything he could show and teach me. 

We spent the next couple of days exploring…avoiding getting hit by rickshaws and buses, taking pictures, and eating the best food I have ever eaten. Ever. Period. Dinesh explained everything about the food to me, what flour it was made out of, what part of India it was native to, and how to pronounce and order it. He taught me how to eat with my hands like a pro. Well, at least without looking like an idiot. We walked miles, even though he hates walking, and I, like a proper tourist made him stop constantly to look at the way the light shines off that particular tree. He was very patient. 

We watched a Bollywood movie in Tamil, shopped for nose and toe rings, and I drank as much Indian coffee as I possibly could. I developed a new love for prawns and briyani, and finally learned what the kind of roti I love so much is called. [Rumalleh]. It took me an inordinate amount of time to learn to pronounce that consistently. 

While Mysore was the spiritual and emotional connection that I needed, Bangalore provided such a better understanding of the culture and traditions. I am eternally grateful to my tour guide for taking such good care for my safety and teaching me so much. I’ll fill you in later about the trip home, and how leaving there positively broke my heart. But I don’t want to talk about it right now, because remembering how amazing this all was is so much more fun for me at 4am when jet lag has gotten the best of me. 

I feel so blessed, and crazy and kind of brave. I don’t know what possesses me sometimes to embark on adventures with so little idea of how they will turn out, but so far whatever it is has been to my advantage. 

WIth love and affection, I thank Dinesh, and all the craziness of Bengalaru for such a delightful end to my vacation.

Namaste

Day 7 in Mysore. What a week. I already feel like I could navigate here, and maybe anywhere.
I’ve really been enjoying the opportunity to get to know Krista and Maureen, my yoga teachers, better, and being in a place where they might want to know me. I’m not sure how things have looked for the last couple
Of years, but they cant have looked good. I’m grateful that Ashtanga and The Yoga Shala have always given me a home to come back to.
I was sad to miss practice this morning because I was up all night coughing. This jet lag has just fully run me out go steam.
Today I climbed Chamandi Hill. It is 1012 steps, and kind of steep. There’s a temple at the top and some beautiful views. I, with my bronchitis and plentiful booty, had kind of a hard time. We brought a couple more yogis, and the giant Ugandan we met last night. In between all the huffing and puffing, he and I discussed philosophy on the way up. Im finding that I have a lot of resistance to meeting new people…but all of them have been so awesome here. After that, I rode back to Gokulum on the back of the Ugandans moped. Sorry, his name was Mahad. I made a video for my mom just in case he kidnapped me. He thought it was hilarious. I know it was just a moped ride, but when traveling through a city in India, it can feel like the most freedom you have ever had. Thanks Mahad for that.
Then came the Thali. There is no way to explain how much I love eating Indian food. Not just the taste.. But discovering what it is, the favors, and of course, eating with my hand. Sweet lime soda is also pretty boss.
Then, even though I was exhausted…Krista , Kaiden and I went back to the city for some final shopping. I bought two of the most beautiful things I have ever owned, one of which is a toning bowl. I remember laughing at my grandma when she started using one. Kaiden finally started loving me today, which made me miss Jax, but also made me grateful for all of the other opportunities I have to love in my life. Tonight is packing and goodbyes, and tomorrow I have a car taking me to Bangalore. There, I will spend a couple of days with a crazy Indian who I haven’t seen in over 10 years….ass hattery will ensue.
India is basically nuts. And dirty, and stinky, and beautiful and complex. I’m not sure why this has always been the first place I’ve wanted to go, but I can be sure that I will be back. There just might not be this combination of naked love, color, and amazingness anywhere else.
Goodbye Mysore.
Namaste