yogi nomad

My Solstice

Today, I:

  • Met up with my nomadic yogi friend and walked 27,000 steps in NYC
  • Fed the homeless
  • Meditated in Washington Square Park
  • Fed some wild animals
  • Watched the sun set
  • Found the full moon hiding behind some buildings in Union Square
Good action!

I went on an interesting voyage recently that tripped me out, quite literally. Before bed, I wrote down a stream of consciousness- it flowed out of my brain like water gushing out of a fire hydrant and I cried big hacking sobs the entire time. It seemed profound as fuck at the time but, like most things that come out of my body post-2am, it was also wildly esoteric and weird. I won’t paste the whole thing here, but here’s the most coherent bit:


“I am confused by what it all looks like in a state of meditative wandering, in a state of blissful being, in a place where I no longer get to think. And yes, I get tastes of it sometimes. When I practice yoga and fuck and set goals and fall from heights and cry and see sunsets and die and live all at the same time. And because those moments excite me, they have no choice but to confuse me. I forget that those glorious moments of beauty aren’t glittery and shiny. They are ordinary. Meditative bliss can’t be packaged. It can’t be purchased. It’s something so expensive that the only possible tender is the entirety of my being. None of it matters until I truly want to know myself.”


I think we’re all being trained to think that happiness and bliss can be purchased. And that if we buy enough yoga experiences, we can ultimately buy happiness and bliss. But the moments when I genuinely feel the happiest, both on and off my mat, are usually sort of boring and banal. But maybe accepting that bliss is actually boring is a big part of my practice.


Maybe this is all a little weird for “Instagram yoga” and that’s ok with me. My practice is constantly evolving. With every passing day, chasing asana becomes less and less interesting to me. I’m finally recognizing that obsessively practicing yoga poses speaks to a very immature piece of my existence. That doesn’t mean I don’t love it. I mean, I shamelessly indulge in all sorts of immature activities so why not let asana chasing stay on the list?


The OG nomadic yogis were never considered normal- they were weirdos, hanging out on mountainsides and bending their bodies in strange shapes. Legit, everyone thought they were weird. So if I’m being weird, at least I’m keeping it real.

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