Left Turns, Right Turns, and Finding the Space Within
📷: Passages II in Nature White
on left turns
“But if we keep turning left,” asked bird, “won’t we end up where we started?”
“I suppose,” replied bear, “there’s only one way to find out.”
And the journey began.
… … …
Awww, bacon and whiskey.
It’s amazing how life works, isn’t it?
As I was flipping through the pages of the first edition of my book, on., I was surprised at the story I chose to begin with.
on heart is a story about breaking patterns and facing fears. It’s a story about how we evolve, about the realization that our lives—your life, my life—are temporary. So, if we’re not taking the reins, who or what is?
[You can read on heart below]
I removed that story from subsequent printings, but now I’m wishing I’d kept it in. And here’s why.
Oddly enough, the story centers on bacon and whiskey.
I say “oddly” because in January six years ago, I stopped drinking. I realized it wasn’t serving me or the kind of life I was interested in living.
At the time, I wasn’t sure what would happen. As I share in on yoga (page 345 of the book, and also included below), I knew I’d opened a space, but I did not know what would fill it, if anything.
It’s been one of the best decisions I’ve ever made in life, and I continue to discover every day that what fits in that space is me.
Shortly after I stopped drinking, I also moved to a plant-based diet. It’s a long story, but feel free to ask me about either or both if you’re curious.
Why am I sharing this with you?
Do I want you to stop drinking or eating meat? Hardly. I want you to do whatever brings you the most joy, whatever supports the kind of life you are most interested in living, whatever helps you feel fully alive.
I’m sharing because I learned that—in order to find that joy—sometimes we need to make left turns in our lives.
And I want you to know you’re allowed to do that.
You are allowed to take the reins and re-imagine who you are, what you want, and how you live your life. On your own terms. On your timeline.
I’m here for it, and I’m here for you.
Cheers!
If you could take a left turn right now, today, in this moment, what road might you choose to leave behind andor toward who, what, why, or where might you point yourself?
… … …
on heart
“Should I follow it?” asked bear.
“Only you can know,” said wolf as she howled at the moon. “But I say yes.”
… … …
The street was not well lit, and there was no sign, but I finally found the place.
It was literally a hole-in-the-wall. A metal door with a window and a ripped screen.
I checked the address again, took a deep breath, and then turned the knob.
Inside the dimly lit room was a beat-up butcher’s table, a bottle of whiskey, and a burly guy holding a couple big knives.
Standing there, hands on hips, he looked at me in a way that made me feel like I wanted to be anywhere else.
Then he cracked a smile and said, “You ready to make some bacon?”
Working with two 20-pound slabs of sub-primal pork, I learned how to make bacon on that night with one of those very sharp knives … while drinking whiskey.
For the record, I would suggest that the two do not go together.
When I first moved to Portland, I committed myself to doing one new thing every day.
It was my way of trying to stay accountable to the decision I’d made when I left Bend.
A decision to break patterns that weren’t serving me and face fears.
It was a decision to act as if I understood life is not forever, to follow my heart, and to show up.
I did not, however, expect that a bacon-making session was going to turn into an existential experience, that we would talk late into the night about what we really wanted in life, more than anything else, that passion, and the willingness to turn left and left again and left again to make it a reality.
As I left with a sack of bacon slung over my shoulder, I remember looking up at the night sky.
Right there, low and white between two trees, sat a crescent moon. And I felt lucky to be alive.
Knowing we will not be forever, what’s one new thing you want to try today?
… … …
on yoga
“But I’m a bird,” cried sparrow, “not a pretzel.”
“Perhaps,” Bear laughed, “you’re a spretzel.”
… … …
She smelled like Indian takeout, perhaps yellow curry or maybe channa masala.
The first time I met her, she was dressed in not much more than a cloud of incense. Sandalwood, I think. It swirled around her like poetry, making her edges hard to see. She welcomed me, hands over heart and … legs behind her head.
Her name was Mickie. And she was my first yoga teacher.
I was 18. In college. And unsure what I’d just signed up for.
Even at that age, I was more comfortable on a couch with a beer than twisting myself up like a pretzel. And although I showed up ready to muscle my way into every pose, Mickie patiently, gently, thoughtfully spent an entire semester introducing me to my body.
“This is your spine, Mark,” she’d say, hand soft on my back as I awkwardly pivoted into downward dog.
“Would you like to say something to it, perhaps thank you?” she’d ask.
Often, “thank you” was not what I wanted to say. To my spine or to her.
Over the course of many years, I’d drink many more beers, and only occasionally return to yoga.
Five years ago, my partner helped show me what’s available when you quit numbing yourself with alcohol. Her courage inspired my own.
When I stopped drinking, I honestly didn’t know what would happen. All I knew for sure was that I’d removed something from my life, something that was not serving me.
I knew I’d opened a space, but I did not know what would fill it, if anything. And that was frustrating.
Over those same years, my partner invited me numerous times to try yoga. Yet, for some reason, I resisted, and kept the door closed. Until recently.
In life, we will lose many times over. By choice. By circumstance. People. Things. Dreams. And that loss will leave spaces, holes, within us. Yet, with every loss, we have a choice: Fill with what is outside, or invite ourselves in.
Now, I know I was always meant to fill that space with me.
Whether it’s removing something that no longer serves you or affirming something that does, where can you look at yourself more patiently, gently, and thoughtfully today?
Grab your own copy of on.
Available now on Amazon or you can order a signed copy here.
