A Misplaced Spirit
Once again Christmas is upon us. It waits with giddy excitment behind the corner, hinting at its presence through the delicate tinkling of glass balls on the tree, the aroma of indulgent delicacies from an overworked oven, fights over whose turn it is to scrub the porch, and the clattering of china for the guests who will be turning up for the traditional Christmas lunch.
Christmas usually makes me feel like a helium-filled balloon. It's my favourite time of the year and nothing is able to prick my bubble of bliss. I'm the in-house entertainment with my squeals and shrieks over everything Christmassy that pops up in the house, especially when the presents appear under the tree. Chsitmas is usually the happiest time of the year for me. But not this year.
One of my favorite people in the world is in a better place and Christmas just isn't the same without her pot roast, fussing over guests and newly dyed hair. I miss her.
And there's more but it's Christmas and this is not a story for the holidays. But my spirit has scuttled into hiding this year and I can't seem to find it no matter how hard I look.
Yoga teacher, Philip Moffitt, says, "By embracing your mother wound as your yoga, you transform what has been a hindrance in your life into a teacher of the heart."
I struggle to embrace my mother wound because it reminds me of how, at one moment, I became everything I never thought I would be. It made me lose faith in myself, in my being and in my practice. I don't know how to use this wound to be my yoga and a teacher of the heart.
This Christmas is keeping that wound fresh somehow. And it's making me think that perhaps Christmas may no longer live in the lights, scents and tastes for me. Perhaps I will learn the real spirit of Christmas this year. And perhaps then, this wound will finally close.
Once again Christmas is upon us. It waits with giddy excitment behind the corner, hinting at its presence through the delicate tinkling of glass balls on the tree, the aroma of indulgent delicacies from an overworked oven, fights over whose turn it is to scrub the porch, and the clattering of china for the guests who will be turning up for the traditional Christmas lunch.
Christmas usually makes me feel like a helium-filled balloon. It's my favourite time of the year and nothing is able to prick my bubble of bliss. I'm the in-house entertainment with my squeals and shrieks over everything Christmassy that pops up in the house, especially when the presents appear under the tree. Chsitmas is usually the happiest time of the year for me. But not this year.
One of my favorite people in the world is in a better place and Christmas just isn't the same without her pot roast, fussing over guests and newly dyed hair. I miss her.
And there's more but it's Christmas and this is not a story for the holidays. But my spirit has scuttled into hiding this year and I can't seem to find it no matter how hard I look.
Yoga teacher, Philip Moffitt, says, "By embracing your mother wound as your yoga, you transform what has been a hindrance in your life into a teacher of the heart."
I struggle to embrace my mother wound because it reminds me of how, at one moment, I became everything I never thought I would be. It made me lose faith in myself, in my being and in my practice. I don't know how to use this wound to be my yoga and a teacher of the heart.
This Christmas is keeping that wound fresh somehow. And it's making me think that perhaps Christmas may no longer live in the lights, scents and tastes for me. Perhaps I will learn the real spirit of Christmas this year. And perhaps then, this wound will finally close.
posted by starlight | 5:33 AM
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