It's ironic. For the last week, I've had nothing but anxiety at knowing I was at my last month of practice. (I still have 3 weeks to go). I was fixated on wanting, needing more time. I fretted over asking Sharath the dreaded question of extension.
And now, I'm packing. Or rather, I should be. My tickets are booked. In less than 24 hours, I will be on a plane--on several planes--to Manila, where my dad and step sister are in hospital for dengue fever. In my heart I know they will be fine. They've been diagnosed early and are in teh best of care. Still, a couple of hours ago, my dad had his first round of blood transfusions. His platelet count has been dropping faster than anticipated. And I've had to come to reality: for the moment, my place isn't here.
This concept is like being vacuumed out of the safest, warmest of places, a yoga womb of sorts and thrown out into the harsh light of day. I feel like a premature thing cast out of the yoga bubble before hitting my maturity date.
My heart is breaking a little. I don't want to leave. I feel undercooked. But all the same, I know that by leaving I am flowing with grace. Home is where the Universe is leading me, where my family needs me, where my father needs comfort. The values that we've been taught to honor is compelling me home. And though I hope to come back to Mysore after my family recovers and continue practice, there's no knowing what reality has in store.