The here and now, four years later

by Annmarie Kent (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find Guatemala

When traveling, the moments that comprise the here and now seem to howl past us like gusts of wind, one after the other. If we were to stop and witness the dust in the wind, we’d miss the chance for another gust to whisk us away. This is precisely the phenomenon I experienced in 2015 on Lake Atitlan in Guatemala while completing my 200-hour yoga teacher training. Three volcanoes, traditional Mayan people speaking over 14 languages, and tourists from all over the world living out the dream of the 60’s, surround the 50sq mile lake. Sensory overload is a modest description of this place; the streets are filled with vendors, tuk-tuks, horses, food, cobblestone, and there are motorboats that transport you to opposing villages along the lake. I thought I was getting myself in to a training where we practiced asana, the physical practice of yoga like downward dog, and would learn how to teach a class in a western setting. Flash forward to 7am wake up chimes and I was fully enveloped in silence, vegetarian food, barefoot connection, and meditation. Being freshly out of university, totally woke, and experienced in tropical travel, I thought this would be a slice of cake and I’d be on my way to teach the next best power class. At the time, I didn’t realize how much dust was rushing past me, even in the moments of absolute stillness. If you have experienced life in the tropics than you have experienced vigilance on a whole other level. We were being asked to go within, to let go of the outside, and to just be. Sounds simple, right? I tried to sink in but all the while I was concerned of stepping on scorpions, trusting the sensations in my gut as only gas, and whether or not my bug net would keep the snakes out of my bedding; yes, I woke up to a snake curled up like the poop emoji next to my face on the fourth night. I was trying to just be, in the here and now. Soak it in, learn, let go, be. I was moving so quickly, resisting the sensation of release into the unknown, keeping control of the life I walked in with. I was not witnessing the storm I was caught up in. It’s been four years since this experience. If you would have asked me three years and some months ago what it was like, I would have said, ‘great!’ Now I see it as something completely different, something completely transformative. It has taken me those years to dissect the particles of experience as tiny lessons that are continuously changing my life. I was so wrapped up in the survival of my body and my ego that I couldn’t understand the deeper lessons. The lessons were everywhere in every interaction: Silence speaks volumes, if you listen. Physical health is a reminder to be thankful everyday. Surrendering to discomfort is insurance for better coping, tomorrow. Trying something new does not imply permanent change if you don’t want it to, but invite your ego to take a step back and observe the process, it might like what it sees and how it feels. Where you are today, is different from where you’ll be tomorrow, don’t fight that. Everyone’s path is unique and tailored for them; comparison only invites negativity into your being. Stop and breath fully and let the observation of stillness change you, if even for just that moment of clarity--those moments add up. The worst thing that can happen, is likely solvable. Stop to observe whatever sensations you are wrapped up in, you only live that once. I wonder if I were to experience this again if I would be less resistant and more observant, more able to live in the here and now. Or if I’d get caught up in another beautiful storm that led to another four years of trying to understand the ‘then and there.’ There is only one way to find out.