Returning to Center

Practicing intention when life feels untethered.

“Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known.” - Carl Sagan

It was New Year’s Day 2020 and I was sitting cross-legged on a yoga studio floor with others in my class to reflect on how we wanted to experience the next twelve months of our lives.

As the morning sun shone softly through the window, we were given an index card and asked to write down one word best capturing our intention for the coming year.

My answer came quickly.

CENTERED.

When the instructor asked if anyone wanted to share, I surprised myself by speaking up first, revealing my word before launching into a somewhat rambling, unsolicited explanation of why I felt so frayed.

My work was awesome but demanding… I was drowning in caregiving responsibilities for my dad… I felt like I was being pulled in all directions but had abandoned myself. My dreams. My goals. My source. Where had I gone? How could I bring myself back? Where was my joy?

Everything and nothing at all happened that long year.

Within three months, the world would slow down as the pandemic arrived.

Seven months later, my father would pass.

It was the mother of all in-betweens with our lives now separated into two categories — things that happened before COVID, and things that happened after.

Amidst the fear and uncertainty of the often-tragic events unfolding, I found myself exhaling as the day-to-day activities of my harried schedule paused.

In the evenings, my husband and I took refuge with our chocolate lab on the back porch overlooking our cozy back yard. We played card games. Drank too much beer. Plowed through loaves of stecca bread as we decided carbs didn’t really matter in such situations.

We rode bikes, waving at neighbors from a distance when passing each other on the street. Made sandwiches with the aforementioned bread, enjoying picnics out of our Subaru hatchback while parked in nature.

Each week, I visited my father at his assisted living facility. Due to the pandemic, our interactions were limited to seeing each other through a closed window of his room, speaking by cell phone over the constant blare of his television. As I stood outside with my hand pressed to the glass, our conversations often drifted to the bird feeder perched nearby and the types of birds he had seen visit that day.

Sitting in his favorite chair, my dad would always smile, the practice of greeting his former real estate clients taking over. But as he answered my questions (“Are they helping you get dressed? Have they given you a shower?”), I could see the sadness in his eyes. I reminded myself that he was cared for. That he was safe in this place. Before I’d leave, I would top off the feeder with more seed and wonder if my dad sometimes wished he could join the birds he watched and fly away.

And that October, he did just that.

Photo by Abhinav Srivastava on Unsplash

That year, I realized that two things can be true at once.

Grief and joy can occupy the same space.

Heartbreak and gratitude can be carried with equal weight.

And now six years after that yoga class, I think I’m finally really learning that feeling centered isn't a destination but an ongoing practice of daily rituals that help us return to ourselves again and again, hold space to remember those no longer with us, and move forward with intention.

And so I make lists in my journal for that which I am thankful.

I soak in every single day of summer and the later sunsets (it’s my favorite time of year).

I take joy in caring for my vegetable plants and am absolutely giddy each time I discover a new tomato… or zucchini… or pepper.

I still cherish the moments on the back porch with my husband and dog, whose face is now more gray than brown.

And most of all, I work on connecting with my source energy, focus on staying open to the universe’s direction and welcoming the light ahead on my journey.

Because something incredible is always waiting to be known. And for that I am grateful.

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