Shedding layers for Spring

                                            

  For the first time in our married life my husband has gone away on a trip without me.  Somehow, in the almost eight years we have been together, I have managed to go on several little vacations without him, while he has only had the pleasure to travel in the presence of my company.
I guess I had it coming...

  Upon finding out of his good fortune in being selected for an all expenses paid trip to Peru, my first instinct was to figure out a way to go with him. Once the sensibilities of adulthood settled in my brain, and I realized that I wasn't going anywhere other than to work, I proceeded to show my support, admiration and excitement for him (no, really).

However, in his absence, I have met a side of myself that I don't remember ever encountering before: A sheepish little girl who is apparently terribly afraid of sleeping alone.
Mind you, I have lived alone before.  In a studio in San Francisco's tenderloin district, which is not really known for its safety (or its cleanliness for that matter).  I went to work and I went home, and nobody knew if I had made it in alright until I showed up at the restaurant the next day.  I didn't know my neighbors, and my closest friends lived miles away, yet I always felt safe, and I was never scared in my home.

Fast forward to today, and it turns out I haven't spent one night alone since 2003.  We now live in a much smaller building than I did back then, where I do know my neighbors, who just so happen are going out of town for the same time period that my husband will be gone. That Murphy guy and his laws sure are something...
And all of a sudden, even though I cherish and very much enjoy my alone time in my every day life, the thought of sleeping alone in my own home, without anyone to reach out to if anything happens, scares the shit out of me.

In an effort to switch my perspective and take advantage of the multiple benefits of having the house all to myself, I decided to do a little Spring Cleaning.
As I dove into my closet, I felt light and clear, taking things off their hangers, and resolutely placing them on the donations pile without any hesitation.  Unfortunately, the lightness was very short lived.  Upon digging deeper I found myself once again wanting to keep  this or that shirt even though I never wear it anymore. I heard that convincing loud voice inside my head, dishing out argument after another rationalizing  my attachement to the object at stake. And with that monologue, in the same way as it always happens, the "maybe" pile was born.

  Once everything was off the rack I took a deep breath and stared at that pile. I tried to make some sense of what these things were, and why I had decided that they might be worth keeping regardless of the fact I no longer use or need them.
 There were things I had owned for years and had only worn once.  Others, I used to wear all the time but hadn't worn in years.  Yet Spring after Spring, and move after move, these items had somehow weaved themselves back in from the maybe to the keep pile, and into the precious real estate that is my closet. Why was I holding on to these things? Why couldn't I let go of my attachment to them?

                                             

It suddenly dawned on me, that my attachment wasn't to the clothes at all - although some of them are fabulous - but to what they represented to me: I was holding on to the fun and thrifty young woman who had purchased the pink tuxedo shirt; I was attached to all the good times I had when I wore the long orange silk skirt; I longed for the worry-less, idealist, romantic teenager who had picked out the fuchsia tie dye t-shirt from a stack of hundreds at a crowded flea market in London; I couldn't let go of the memory of my dad's loving embrace when he gave me the earrings he bought for me on a trip to South America; I was nostalgic for the single gal who used to wear the blue and green flower skirt when she went out on the town with her friends...

The maybe pile made me realize that I was afraid that by getting rid of the clothes, I would be getting rid of a part of myself.  Yet the truth of the matter is, the only reason why I no longer wear those items, is because I wear others: The vintage polyester polka dot shirt that the still fun, still thrifty, still young woman purchased at a second hand store;  The comfy blue tights that the yoga teacher wears to work every day;  The classic pearl earrings that my dad bought for me when we were visiting my brother in Barcelona; The slate blue and lace top that the adventurous young lady and her husband picked out together on their trip to Alaska; The tribal print dress that she likes to wear for a night on the town with her husband, with their friends, with their family...

 The yoga tradition teaches us that we are composed of five koshas, layers -or sheaths- : the physical body, the breath body, the mental body, the wisdom body, and the spirit body. It is through the balancing of our five koshas, that we ultimately find bliss.

In much the same way, we are composed of dozens or hundreds of layers made up from the labels that we -or society- attach to ourselves: husband, brother, mother, wife, lawyer, friend, chef, writer, doctor, grandmother, aunt, son, injured, happy, weak, tired, resilient...
At any given time, we are navigating the world trying to balance ourselves amidst the tornado of all of those layers.  A yoga teacher once said to us in class: peel the layers that you have come to identify yourself with.  What is left?  What was left, was our essence, our inner teacher, our true self. 

As we get used to our labels, we really do come to identify ourselves with them, and we sometimes settle into their roles in a way that is so automatic, that we forget all the other aspects of ourselves. Yet, just like with any good layered dish which tastes best when we manage to get a bite of all the components at the same time, it is the balance between all these different aspects of ourselves that makes us the unique individuals we are .

As I sat on my bed, surrounded by the keep, maybe and donate piles, I wondered if my new found fear of sleeping alone wasn't just like my maybe pile.  Was it possible that in wearing the comfortable, safe and wonderful label of being J's wife, I had somehow forgotten that in my keep pile, I will always have a strong, confident  and resourceful woman who is completely capable of taking care of herself, just as well -if not better- than her loving husband and her caring neighbors regularly do?

As soon as the though finished forming in my brain, I let out a burst of laughter. My fears were not only completely irrational, but they were weighing down the amazing opportunity of getting a taste of living alone again, and enjoying its many wonderful benefits, while remaining happily married to my sweet loving husband.

 Often, when closing a yoga class, I ask my students to become aware of the peaceful and tranquil state that they are in, and to recognize that they attained this state merely by breathing and moving their bodies.  I ask them to remember, that they can always go back to that place of stillness, peace, and light, whenever they want, whenever they need, throughout their day, and throughout their lives.  It was time to practice what I preach, and  I realized that as my husband always says:  "Everything is going to be ok, because it already is."

Much like the glistening white snow must melt before the perennial flowers can once again begin to sprout, at times, we need to peel of and discard some of our old layers, in order to reveal the colorful new ones that are ready to shine.I took another deep breath, and without a hint of hesitation, stacked the maybe pile right on top of the donations pile.

Later that night, after enjoying a delicious dinner and watching a French film that J would never have watched with me, I laid down right in the middle of the bed, using every single pillow, and smiled at the luxury of having the bed all to myself.