inner peace

If you haven’t read The Alchemist (spoiler alert: skip to the next paragraph if you ever plan to and don’t want to know how it ends) and grasped the true meaning, it speaks to how you can travel the world, be rich, be poor, and experience everything life can possibly offer—but you will not find what you are looking for until you look right where you are. In essence, the treasure we seek is within.

Last night I came back from a 28-hour marathon trip from Westhampton Beach, NY, across the Long Island Sound via Port Jefferson to Connecticut, to Branford/Rhode Island/Branford/Rhode Island, and back across the Sound on the east end of Long Island via Orient Point to drive back to where I started from. I went in a large circle.

While having a quick takeout dinner I grabbed earlier in the day on the Cross Sound Ferry yesterday evening, I suddenly felt the urge to MOVE. I had been in the car or in a tight, cramped space for more than a day and felt like I had to break free.

But there was almost nowhere to go…

So I walked. And walked. And walked.

I walked around and around in circles on the ferry. The wind was warm—breezier in some parts than others. I breathed it all in deeply. The sun was setting.

I passed the same people many times. People mostly doing the same things—on their phones, with a handful engaged with one another. I walked past them over and over in my own reverie as the ship moved forward from one destination to the next.

Something about this felt symbolic. Many remain in one spot, or like I was doing, going around and around in circles as we are carried ahead by life via a man-made creation known as time.

Once the ferry arrived and I began the drive from the east end, it all felt so very familiar—the dark, the long winding roads, infrequently passing other cars as I skirted my eyes toward the right where the white line meets the edge of the road, as I was taught in Defensive Driving when I was 16.

I felt like I was that age again. Driving familiar roads. Some of the same roads I had driven then. The landscape of the road, the lining of the trees against the night sky, the warm summer air, the cicadas, and the crickets. All my senses were highly engaged. I was so present and aware of the moment—and the connection to the past.

The radio was on and connected to my iPhone. I was listening to Angels and Airwaves. I looked at the name of the album’s words that lit up on my car’s navigation display:

Stomping the Phantom Brake Pedal

I had only just noticed what those words mean.

Has my life just gone on until now while I went in circles?

I spent my entire adulthood on a path away from where I grew up.

The first 16 years or so were quite lovely. I put trauma behind and made a life for myself—one that I was proud of. But a divorce, and what should have been a happier ending, threw me into a tailspin. I was suddenly looking for something. And to make what could be a very long story short, I unearthed trauma that was still lingering, and the last 13 years have been about discovery and healing.

But I stayed away from home.

My current husband grew up a mere 7 miles, as the crow flies, from the place I attempted to escape and was driving toward last night. I’ve visited his hometown for years while skirting around my own. I never really went back—mentally or physically.

Then a few weeks ago, on a whim, I decided to stop in my own hometown on the way past it. I was alone. I had time. I suddenly wanted to see it.

To my wonder, I felt nostalgia—something I never imagined I would feel. The feeling came on quickly, without warning. It hurt because it felt unfamiliar. Yet it was very happy, and at the same time very sad. A mix of emotion that only nostalgia unearths.

A few days later I realized I could love and dislike the past equally. It’s not all or nothing.

The feeling of suddenly being open to seeing the good of the past felt so free. It was a band-aid that had been on for so long that when it came off, that part of me felt exposed and unfamiliar—yet amazing. In the same way skin under tape would feel when exposed once again to the sun. Cautious, but so warm and, dare I say, inviting.

I let that all marinate for a few weeks and carried on with this temporarily homeless existence my husband and I have been living in since our home has been under construction in June.

And here I was last night, coming back to where I started the prior day and literally close to where my adulthood journey began.

I suddenly wanted to break out—not so dissimilar to the feeling I had on the ferry earlier.

What I am looking for has always been with me, like in The Alchemist. I know this intellectually. However, it seems difficult to access most of the time.

Last night, that portal was wide open.

I wanted to be where I was—in the flow, in the perfect moment always, like the spiritual teachings of all shapes, sizes, and religions teach us. We are always where we are supposed to be.

If we let go of our imaginary steering wheel and embrace what God/Brahma/The Universe has in store for us, we will truly be able to enjoy the ride.

Maybe my purpose this morning is to write about this. To share that you can stomp on the phantom brake pedal—out of standstills or ruts you find yourself in—and break habits that stop you from being the fullest expression of yourself.

I feel it now at this very moment. I know I will forget it quite soon and carry on with my day and my life very much as I always have—but perhaps a smidgen more enlightened.

It’s all these little “smidges” of becoming more aware that lead to peace and flow. That is the only path forward.

Perhaps forward is really upward?

Perhaps we can stay where we are in that same physical place, the same rut, but use the brake to find true freedom in knowing that there is always a very special treasure within.

That treasure is inner freedom and peace.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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We are born with nothing—not even clothes. At the moment of death, we might be donning some attire and perhaps clutching something—a person, animal, or object (or all three). But those physical remnants remain. We come into the world with nothing physical but the body. When we leave, we leave even the body behind. The only thing that goes is that light in our eyes—our spirit.

So why do we become attached to anything? Why do we spend that precious time between life and death hauling around stuff? Worrying about stuff? “Stuff” being our cars, clothes, friends, jobs, or status. The only thing that really matters is the imprint we leave on the planet, created through our spirit. We can’t haul anything but our spirit out of this world, so why isn’t the spirit the main focus of living? Why are we focused on stuff?

I started yoga like many others—for the physical practice. My first experience was with a VHS tape at home in my living room. “This is easy!” I thought. It must be because I’m flexible and was a dancer when I was young. I moved from position to position and sat there waiting to see what I would be told by the TV to do next. I ignored the cues to breathe—“Geez, I know how to breathe”—and to “open up”—“Isn’t that what I’m doing?” I was annoyed at the end when the suggestion was to lie on my back for several minutes. “What a waste of time!”

I went to actual classes a few times, but I didn’t quite understand it. I only did yoga at home because I heard it was good for you. I didn’t particularly enjoy it, and I absolutely skipped the lying-on-your-back part at the end.

Until one day I went to a class at a local chiropractic office that was offering free classes for a week. The classes all had different names. I couldn’t tell them apart and really didn’t care. The time I was able to get home from work and get my husband situated with the kids was far more important. I went to a class Monday and Tuesday—same experience—but this time I had to lie in silence at the end. I really disliked that part.

However, the Wednesday class was life-altering. It was called “Love Your Body Yoga.” Yoga was yoga to me. The postures all even seemed the same. But there was something different about this class. Perhaps the teacher’s voice or encouragement—I don’t know; it was too long ago now to remember. Somehow, though, I was able to do the postures better. I listened to the cues to breathe and expand in certain parts. I moved slowly, mindfully, and with grace.

At the end, I was looking forward to the lying meditation (known as savasana—pronounced “shavasana”). During savasana, the teacher came around with an oil for our foreheads. When she gently put her hands on my temples, I felt such peace I almost wanted to cry. The smell was light and citrusy, almost like incense. The experience was so comforting. When I left class, I kept touching my forehead and smelling the oil. I felt a sense of peace.

My practices at home became a little different after that, although I was never able to get into a good routine and reap the full benefits of yoga. Years later, on a whim, I signed up for a local class at Park & Rec. I knew yoga was good for me, I knew how to do it (or so I thought), and I wanted a steady place where I wouldn’t be lazy and skip it.

The first class was amazing. I drove away with a sense of bliss. That night in bed, when I turned over in the middle of the night, I felt space in my body as well as an overall sense of harmony. I kept going, and the benefits kept getting better and better. It wasn’t very long before I had my first cry on the mat while in pigeon (something I now know is quite common). Soon after that, the mind-body-spirit connection was undeniable.

Where has this been all my life? Do other people know about it? Why isn’t this more well known??? Our spirit is the key to life.

I didn’t know it until long after I started yoga teacher training, but the word yoga means “to yoke”—particularly, to yoke the mind, body, and spirit. I know there are many other ways to link the mind, body, and spirit. Others have found the answers in different ways but have come to the same sense of yoking. Once you sense that connection, it’s difficult to go back to the material way of living because you know, deep down, that it doesn’t matter.

Yoga isn’t a magical cure that works all the time. In fact, many times I move through a whole practice and never feel “settled.” The difference is that I know my mind, body, and spirit are disconnected, and I do not like that sense of separation. I know that trying to fill that space with stuff only leads to more suffering and even greater separation. I know this—and most of the time, I still cannot master it. But the time between remembering where true peace comes from grows a tiny bit each day.

The time between birth and death is our life. In that life, we accumulate things—physical things. We become attached to those things. We become attached to people. We become attached to happiness and think something is wrong when we are sad. We need to eat, sleep, and eliminate in order to function and stay healthy. To do that, we need stuff. So we spend our lives hauling it around—from birth to death. Stuff to eat, stuff to sleep, stuff to look good in the eyes of others. At any moment, we are likely carrying something—whether it’s a wallet, purse, tube of lip balm, or like me, bags and bags of food, drink, or things I might need.

I’m not proposing that we don’t have stuff. We absolutely need things to function and stay alive. The disconnect comes in two forms:

Taking more than we need
Becoming attached to it

There are two ways to approach this:

You can listen to authorities who preach it
You can discover it for yourself

The problem with the first is that many who preach it don’t fully live it. Our parents taught us not to take more than we need, yet we likely watched them consume more than necessary. The same goes for teachers, preachers, friends, and society at large. The message was conflicted, and if you’re anything like me, you didn’t even question the contradiction.

Discovering it for yourself is entirely different. Once you realize that non-attachment and taking only what you need leads to a sense of freedom, it becomes hard to ignore. Before that realization, the voice in your head may create guilt—but true understanding from within is far more powerful.

Old habits are incredibly difficult to break. There isn’t a switch that flips where we suddenly make perfect decisions. In fact, there is often more inner debate, guilt, and remorse than ever before.

Wikipedia describes the “monkey mind” as a Buddhist term meaning restless, unsettled, and constantly moving. The monkey mind is the voice in your head that never stops. It jumps from thought to thought, worry to worry, craving to craving. It is like a toddler that never grows up—focused on “me, me, me.”

The spirit, on the other hand, is quiet and knowing. It understands what is right. It responds with care—for your body and for the world. It doesn’t shout, but if you listen, it will guide you.

The challenge is that the habits in our brain respond faster than that quiet inner voice. The mind is used to listening to the louder chatter. We give in to it, just to quiet it—like we might with a child. That is why yoking the mind, body, and spirit is so important. When they align, there is no conflict. The path becomes clear.

Even if you haven’t experienced that connection yet—or aren’t sure what I’m talking about—

Consider not hauling around so much stuff, whether physical or emotional.
Practice non-attachment, knowing nothing lasts forever.
Take only what you need.

With time and practice, the space between remembering grows longer… and with that comes a sense of peace.

DailyPost: Haul

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Please feel free to leave a comment or subscribe for future updates.

On Coming Full Circle

On The Monkey Mind vs Spirit