A Single Moment

by Deborah Lukovich, PhD

I felt an unusual sense of alert presence

as I walked through the entrance into the courtyard where yoga class was taking place. My body seemed to accept an invitation through this symbolic threshold to another realm. 

“Is
this the 7:30 class?” I asked the woman whose calm and stately presence
suggested she was the yoga instructor. Her nod confirmed my worry that the
class was being held outside. It was still 95 degrees as time progressed
towards sunset. I let it go and found a spot on the beautifully designed patio
made of intricately laid bricks. I carefully unrolled my newly purchased
fuchsia colored mat that included the imprint of a mandala. This ancient symbol
is understood to be an expression of wholeness. I hadn’t given it a second
thought since I purchased the yoga mat at a discount store just three weeks
prior, but the image in gold print caught my attention on a semi-conscious
level.

On
this particular night, a sense of ritual seemed to take my body over. After
taking a moment to make sure my mat lay within the taped markings meant to
ensure proper social distance, I slowly moved down to the mat. My body seemed
particularly attuned to the present moment, and as time seemed to slow down, I relaxed
first into a cross-legged position and then rolled back my spine, vertebrae by
vertebrae, until I settled into the pose referred to as corpse. I hadn’t
really given this much thought either, but in hindsight, on this particular
night, corpse pose seemed an appropriate description of the kind of
symbolic and psychological death that had been following me around as I
continued to transition to a new way of existing in the world.

A
big belly breath in and then an audible sigh out my mouth, as I entered an
alternative realm. These moments before class felt like a respite from the
uncertainty of life that seemed to be a constant companion for me over the past
few years. As I became aware of my breath, I was amused by my recollection of a
little-known fact that people who breathe only into their lungs, and not into
their bellies, are more likely to have a heart attack. As my breathing
deepened, I placed one hand on my belly and the other on my chest. Typically,
this would be an instruction given by the yoga teacher, but on this occasion my
body just guided my hands to these energy centers, which in Chakra-speak have
to do with the love and sexuality.

On
any other day, I would have been anticipating the start of class, as if needing
permission to enter the realm of presence and connection to my true essence.
For some reason, this evening was different. My eyes gently gazed up, and I
became intrigued by the complex pattern above me. The cozy outdoor space was
also used for small events, its low light and energy creating a sense of
intimacy. The covering over the otherwise open courtyard resembled a wooden
pergola rafter worn by years of direct sunlight and the kind of rainstorms that
occur in Florida beach towns.

My
attention moved to the dark-leafed plant that seemed to be in the process of
taking over the rafter. As I projected onto the plant a personal drive towards
some kind of goal, I remembered a watered-down version of an important
spiritual teaching – Flowers do not TRY to bloom. They just do what they do.
This winding vine was just doing what it does, growing and finding its way
into open space.

It
was as if time just stood still, or I was experiencing what spiritual teachers point
to as the eternal. My eyes next traveled to the spaces between the cramped
leaves of the vine, and I noticed that the glimpses of light looked more like
twinkling stars. I wondered if the sparkles of light were trying to communicate
something to me personally in the form of a rhythmic dance. 

And
then . . . The insight was dramatic. In that moment, I realized something that
felt momentous and life defining. I’m certain that the only reason I gained
this insight was because something had come to a close. It was as if that
something had not been able to get over the threshold through which I had
walked a few minutes earlier, and I could only grasp it now because it was no
longer a part of the way I was going to be living my life.

For
as long as I can remember, I have either been running from something or running
towards something,” I thought to myself. During the unraveling of my 24-year
marriage, I had become aware that childhood for me felt like a prison from which
I had to escape. I became driven to be completely independent and write my own
story, which I did. It turns out, the constant goal setting and drive to
achieve were distractions. These distractions helped me develop useful skills
that did contribute to making the world a better place, but they also prevented
me from being still enough to fall in love with myself.

There’s love, and then there’s love. I thought I knew love, but then my therapist asked me a really good question during this tumultuous time in my life. “How do you know you feel love?”

“Hmmm.
Well, I know I feel love for my children.” It wasn’t a needy kind of love
though. I think it was through relationship with my children that I first came
into contact with the Divine – or God – and another part of myself. For some
reason, I felt the truth in that saying that your children do not belong to
you. They are placed in your care for the purpose of preparing them to unfold
as they must, whether it suits you or convention.

What
I had not experienced throughout my objectively successful life was the
stillness required to fall in love with myself as a child of the Divine. The
big sigh was perhaps a final letting go of the running.

“Namaste,”
the instructor nodded as class came to an end.

“Thank
you,” many of us responded.

With the same sense of ritual that preceded class, I gently stood, rolled up my mat, and walked through the same threshold. I knew something had changed as I looked towards sunset, but unlike the manic energy that had been a constant companion on my quest to achieve during the first part of my life, a quiet calm filled my body. No goals. Just this moment.

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You can reach Deborah at https://www.deborahlukovich.com/, or on Facebook and Twitter.

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Be sure to come back tomorrow for the final guest author of the week!

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