Opportunities

I had a wonderful geometry teacher in high school. He would dress up in crazy costumes, and sing little math ditties for us, and though I loved math already, I loved it more that year. We were tested or quizzed every Thursday but they were never called tests. No, Mr. Rhoades always called them opportunities.

Earlier this week I was thinking that I needed to write another entry, and probably this time on getting lost, rather than yoga or meditation. I took myself back to a couple of times that I was lost and walked myself back through the experience.

The first memory was of being in Venice. I was in Venice kind of by mistake, having gotten on the wrong train car; the train split sometime in the night and here I was in Venice. I had intended to get there sometime but had planned to spend a little time. Instead, I now had to make the choice to either spend only one day in Venice, then board another train, or do something different and watch my later travel plans unravel. Since I was planning to meet up with another traveller in a particular place at a particular time one week from now, with no way to contact her and change our plans (these were the days before cell phones), I decided to make a short visit to Venice.

I wandered happily through the little streets and alleys, over bridges and around corners, map in hand. I found everything I wanted to see and then needed to make my way back to the station as the fog rolled in and dusk came over the city. As I began to pick my way back to the train, I realized that the map was of no use; many street names and bridges were missing and soon I was hopelessly lost. Finally, as I started to panic, I found the station–almost 3 hours early for my train but too afraid to venture back out again and risk losing myself in the mist.

My second memory is from much later in life. I had taken a bus to an area somewhat familiar to me for a meeting. I found the building and the meeting, we met, we finished, and I strode out the door into the night with my head full of what we had talked about and eager to catch the bus and get home. Unfortunately, it was a different door from the one I had walked in, and on a different side of the building. When I strode out into the night, I strode out in the wrong direction. A few blocks later, I began to wonder what was going on because the area wasn't looking familiar to me. I wasn't exactly sure what had gone wrong, so instead of immediately going back in the direction I had come from, I turned a corner and walked a little in that direction. That wasn't right either and, now worried because it was dark and I didn't want to miss my bus and there was no one to ask because it was a residential neighborhood, I finally managed to work my way back to the building, figure out what had happened, and retrace my steps along the correct route and find the bus stop.

In both cases, what I was really struck by as I ruefully relived the experiences, was the tremendous flow and sequence of emotions that ran through me each time in quick succession. In Venice I was annoyed at myself for being on the wrong train, then accepting, good-humored and decisive, then pleased and relaxed, curious and engrossed, then complacent followed quickly by anxious, confused and worried, a little frightened, then thrilled and relieved when I found the station, but then kind of irked that I had to wait so long and discouraged, and finally just plain bored. After my meeting, I was feeling competent and absorbed, then anxious and confused, a little frightened again and annoyed with myself, relieved when I found the building again and ashamed this time of my incompetence, and finally just very happy to be on the bus on the way home.

And now I'm right back to yoga again. Well, you knew it had to happen. Part of yoga practice is self-study, and I realized that getting lost had provided me with many opportunities for that practice. Because in each case, nothing was really happening, nothing was really changing, but my mental and emotional state was in constant, chaotic flux based on how I was perceiving my experience. I can't even really look back at those memories and label them as "good" or "bad" because I can see that they are just experiences, value-neutral, just stuff that happened, stuff I did, choices I made, and not even terribly interesting as story material. Except that the memories are strong. Probably because I remember them for what they were: opportunities.

copyright 2007 J. Autumn Needles