Flowers Mixed Among So Many Warriors

I won’t being going to Ecuador this February. Last month I visited the botanical gardens in Golden Gate Park and was astonished at how strong my mourning was when I entered the section for Tropical Plants. I climbed under the iron barrier and stood with my feet on the moist ground and placed a single finger on the outstretched leaf and looked up at a tree I knew didn’t belong there. The friend I went with was horrified. “Don’t you see that the sign says not to touch!” I turned back with moist eyes and simply replied, “I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”

I called my dad after. Surprised at my reaction. But the smell. The air. It felt so much like where I feel best. Like where I feel most me. Like where I feel home. I love San Francisco, I really do. It’s an amazing city. But it doesn’t move me the way sunlight through leaves that reach past heaven do. It doesn’t touch my heart the way the sound of rain pounding into earth does. The way the river rushes and I can’t help but place the tips of my fingers into the current and feel connected to something so much bigger than me, but so much inside of me.

I’ve been thinking recently about how much I yearn for travel. How unsettled I’ve been. And in some ways I blame it on the city. On trying to find a way to be exactly who I am and be content here. I’ve been thinking about how grateful I am for yoga… for giving me some time where my movement is continuous and restful all at the same time. How it allows me to be open in an emotional way and still very physical. How I can be overcome and strong. How my breathe is hot and heavy and pushes me and keeps me oh so steady. How grateful I am for my friends. For finding such wonderful extensions of my own heart. Who could not love me more for who I am, despite how differently we find ways of expressing ourselves. How grateful I am for my family. For giving me such invaluable love. And for making me realize how important it is to be true to yourself.

I’m not sure I’m different. I’m not sure I’m nearly as much a love child as you may think. Although I am a child of love. I thank my parents for that. Everyday. And my friends. And my brother. And all the people I have been fated to love and hold dear. I have been lucky. I am a hopeless romantic. I have been burned. And I have been blessed. I have had the same experiences we all have. Or at least in some vein. And I am still open for more. Perhaps it’s the yoga. The bending of ourselves into more than we thought possible. The twisting and turning and manipulating of our bodies and our breathe and turning flexibility to strength. Muscles melting into poses named after flowers mixed among so many warriors.

I have been reading articles from“This I Believe” tonight. And I believe in humanity. In love. In connection. To the earth. To other people. To ourselves. I believe in being open to whatever life offers us. To finding a way to contentment and peace with who we have chosen to be. I believe that climbing under the barrier in the Botanical Gardens to touch a leaf because it touches me … is to be limited for the protection of the plants … but is okay. It’s dorky and weird and probably a little too much for most of you to “get.” But I believe that it’s okay if that’s why you love me too.

Rio