Prayer to the sun god

In New York, I am crowded by past lives. On Saturday night I wander past by the shitty apartment I lived in when I was 21 then another I lived in when I was 23. The street is covered in trash. There are no leaves on the trees. I see old friends who I knew from a job 10 or 15 years ago. I go to a bar that exists briefly, vaguely in my memories, like visiting an old dream. 

Lots of people here care about being cool. I am no exception. I used to feel like if I just got published in the right magazine or invited to the right party, I would become an enlightened being, no longer be subject to the indignities of growing older.

Instead, I left. I got a normal job. I met people who were not in an endless race to hoard clout. 

Many of the people that I knew back then continued on the same trajectory, to varying levels of success. Some have achieved true greatness. The girl who was in the Barbie movie and has 1 million Instagram followers. The guy with the New York Times job. Others have had a harder time. They have gone through mental breakdowns or drug addictions and are just lucky to have gotten to the other side. 

I don’t know where to place myself on the spectrum. And part of me cannot escape the desire to achieve something “great“ even if just to prove I can. I am ashamed of this desire and the jealousy I feel every time I see a cool new publication with its identical “hip” branding and a familiar list of names. There’s a part of me that says “you should’ve done that”. You would have done a better job. You are not living up to your potential.

On a day-to-day basis, I struggle to simply clean the kitchen or put my laundry away. I know that success is just another addiction. (But so is self hatred and despair.) I would never be able to fill whatever hole exists inside of me with fancy bylines or Instagram followers. But it’s hard to go cold turkey on affirmation while everyone around me is still hooked. The city runs on ambition.

I take it one day at a time. I try to feel hopeful. I try to feel connected. I try to feel alive. I walk to yoga on a cold spring day. The edges of my vision are fuzzy, the air is cold, my throat is sore. After 40 minutes of sweating and forcing my body into odd positions I lie down, and finally, there is a moment of stillness. The black thorny vines of anxiety that choke my inner space are temporarily cleared, making way for a warm peace. I can’t imagine giving a shit about anything. 

And then we’re back. Acid burns in my chest. It's noisy out here, in here. That moment of lightness feels as distant as the evolutionary time between me and a single celled organism. This is the duality. We must exist within both.

At every yoga class my sankalpa is the same: I will be kind to myself and others. I will keep trying.