This was my first blog post.
Sunday, June 14, 2009

I knew it would happen.  All this talk of moving to Korea for the past year, and it’s been nothing but excitement.  The thought of picking up and moving halfway around the world.  Doing something that very few people we know have actually done.  It’s all been very high energy.

But, oddly for me, not a single tear has dropped from my eyes.  On the verge of any major life change, I have a habit of becoming very nostalgic before the change even happens.  I cried like a baby months before moving from Cleveland to Chicago.  Cleveland to Chicago!  A six-hour drive.  A one-hour flight.  I would have thought a move to the opposite hemisphere would have elicited an emotional, blabbering mess months ago.  But no, nothing.  Not when I told my friends.  Not when I told my family, especially my Grandma.  Not at the Point of No Return when I told my boss, the man who signs my paychecks.  Not a single one of the hundreds of mornings I’ve woken up to a breathtaking sunrise over Lake Michigan.  Nothing.

Until this weekend.  And it wasn’t some touching moment that triggered a tear, then another, then another.  It was that thunderstorm that comes out of nowhere, for no reason, with no warning.  I collapsed on Steve, all tears and snot flowing like Natty Light at a frat party.  Ok, now it’s real.

That was Friday night.  Yesterday I went to an energy workshop at my regular yoga place, not really sure what to expect of it.  As the teacher began explaining ways to harness energy and quiet the mind, I thought ‘yeah right’ and wondered why I had committed the most unholy of yogic sins by eating bacon and eggs before class.  On a croissant.  With cheese.  It sat there like a brick in my stomach, surely adding to the weighed-down feeling I was already carrying.

As the discussion approached the element of fire, the teacher noted that it corresponded with the summer season, or the cycle of life where ideas turn to action.  Appropriate for me, I thought.  She gave us all spoons and said that she would conduct exercises to get us to bend them.  Now, I’ve never had a doubt in my mind that certain people can do things like this, that not everything lies within the realm of scientific definition.  But I’m not one of those people.  So I participated in the exercises, doing whatever the teacher instructed but with no expectation.  I visualized hot sun, nothing.  I laughed like a maniac, nada.  I danced around the room, nope.  I confronted my emotions surrounding fear.  Bend.  Bend, bend, bend.  The hard metal spoon became Playdough in my hand!  (See above for the end result.)

As I’ve often discovered in yoga and in life, things get mucked up the minute the mind gets too involved.  As soon as I started thinking about myself actually bending a metal spoon, it stopped.  But the timing of this strange event was perfect.  It put all the emotion I had experienced the night before into perspective.  As I head on this journey to Korea and other yet-to-be-determined faraway lands, I want to open myself to receiving the energy of these places and their people.  To change with them.  To be the spoon.