One Year Later

Today I watched an old video of my first yoga studio.

I'm not sure what I was expecting.

But it definitely wasn't crying.

The kind of crying that follows you throughout the day.

The studio didn't close this week.

It didn't close last month.

We were forced out a year ago.

The old studio was demolished for a(nother) dollar store.

And yes, part of me still finds that absurd.

A place built around presence, community, healing, conversation, and human connection was replaced by cheap plastic crap and discount batteries.

But that isn't what this blog is about.

Why did the grief arrive now?

When something significant happens, we assume we will feel it immediately.

But often we don't. We survive it first.

A new space had to be found.

A  new studio had to be built.

Classes to teach.

Decisions to make.

Uncertainty to carry.

The nervous system is remarkably practical that way.

Function comes first.

Feeling can wait.

Sometimes for months.

Sometimes for years.

Then one day, a trigger.

The grief was always present.

Waiting.

Not buried.

Not forgotten.

Waiting for the load to lessen.

Waiting for enough capacity to become available.

Waiting for my state to be settled enough.

The grief isn't late.

It arrived when it finally could.

My nervous system was finally available to the grief of losing my home.

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