1.8. My Emotion

Hot tears flooded my eyes, I started to recognise that Ashtanga Yoga was more than just a physical practice—it was an assertion of my identity, an affirmation of my independence. My emotions had cover

Thanks to a red origami paper that crafted a vivid and curious definition of what a meditative state secretly meant, I came up with plausible definitions about it, it helped me to dove headfirst into daily meditation. It was as if I came to terms with the other self inside me. It had been a week since I started meditating again.

I meditated before sleep and after waking up. I did it immediately after burning a stick of incense. The smell of incense was a trigger. I travelled from daydreaming to nightdreaming and sometimes, lucid dreaming. Finally, I meditated about both in the morning. This new habit occupied almost half of my day. Soon, I was looking forward to going to bed early and to be honest, not sure which world was real.

Last night, my meditation teacher, Sachidananda, whom I hadn't contacted for 15 years, cast a shadow of doubt over my practice. Yes, I came across him in meditation.

"Perhaps," he mused, "you’re merely pretending to meditate."

His melodic voice hung through a surreal timeline crafted from red origami paper like incense smoke, hinting at a deeper truth.

I glided along this crimson timeline with his incense smoke, strangely, the discomfort of my tangled legs faded into oblivion, and the cacophony of everyday life melted away. I was immersed in just sitting, while Satchidananda was warning with incense smoke.

Soon, I found myself enveloped in an exquisite silence. I dropped into the pocket of the timeline. I was in the middle of nowhere, there was neither crimson paper nor incense smoke. Within this ethereal realm, I saw the women I photographed in the exhibition "DayDreaming" in the distance. They were dancing through their daydream in which they could be anybody and anything, their laughter echoing like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. I sensed fear in me.

Determined, I walked toward their circle as fear began to settle, the air thick with anticipation. After what felt like minutes of walking, a rustling in the clothes caught my attention. Heart pounding with awe, I felt an inexplicable connection as the women approached me. Without warning, they looked at me and placed their index fingers at their lips. I did the same.

"The mouth is the gate of the evil". That was the signal between us.

In an instant, the world around me faded into a swirl of colours and lights. Together we ventured into the depths of our imaginations while dancing. 

Coincidentally, I had been in a lucid dream, soaring in a vivid dream alone in a snow field, my feet raised gracefully. My limbs knew how to dance. So, I did the same. I felt blissful as I balanced and stood on one foot and the other was higher up to the sky. I saw my lone soul aglow. Balanced on one foot, joy coursing through my being.

Around me, women swayed, each in their blissful grace and their souls were resonating with mine. Our hearts spoke in silence and they revealed hidden wonders, resonating thoughts without sound with vibrations that tingled through my fingertips as I immersed my hand in the shimmering air. It was like putting my left hand out of the car when I drove, it gave me a sense of freedom.

In that fleeting second, a profound truth struck me: I was ignorant. I was utterly oblivious to the essence of womanhood. 

“How had I found a way to exist till now?”

My perspective of women was surprisingly limited, confined to societal portrayals and the narrow lens of male perception, moreover, other women's.

But the women I encountered, those who flourished in my daydreams, defied every stereotype. The freedom in their dance didn't fit into my understanding of women I had so far. They were not mere reflections of societal expectations or comparisons to men; they were vibrant, multifaceted beings, each a universe unto themself, bursting with stories and dreams that transcended the ordinary.

Our souls harmonized in an ethereal dance.

I opened my eyes.

The crisp early summer morning welcomed me as if celebrating my encounter with a discovery. A faint echo of "The mouth is the gate of the evil" sounded in my head. The smoke of incense was swaying just imposingly like the warning by Sachidananda.

Since that experience, I embraced silence, not only in the sense of practising the art of silence but also in the sense of closing the gate of evil.

This act hushed that part of me that had formulated a convincing definition of meditation. Then, something changed inside me: my emotions. They became dormant. It was a surprising fact that my mouth connected to my emotions or vice versa, probably my emotions drove my mouth.

If I leave my emotional dress in the closet behind me, I won't get tired at the end of the day. Emotions were such a heavy outfit, like armour. I was free from weight. It was gravity, which I felt in The First Step.

“Did I withstand the gravity which my emotions created?” I asked myself. “Was it a kind of drama written and enacted by my emotions?”

I was bewitched by a fox: Kitsune ni tsumamareta 狐に摘まれた. This is a Japanese expression to describe a situation where someone is so surprised or confused that they feel like they are in a dream. In Japan, whispers have echoed among the people about the mystical powers of foxes since ancient times.

"Kitsune" means foxes and we write it as 狐. "Tsumamareru" is the pasive voice of "tsumamu" which means to pinch.

I lifted the calligraphy brush and inscribed the word "fox." As I grounded the ink stick on the ink stone for the first time in ages, a fragrance rich and deep straightened my spine, memories in a box of childhood lessons, my mother’s voice to keep. Memories flooded back—years of mastering calligraphy under my mother's watchful eye. Her voice echoed in my mind, critiquing my scrawls: “You lack concentration. For in distracted strokes, true beauty dies. Your emotions bleed into your strokes.”

I wrote “fox” on the scrap paper, threw it on the floor, and wrote again. Inca, my loyal dog, lay peacefully amidst a chaotic sea of foxes, each shape was a reflection of my restless heart. I couldn't find one that I liked.

So, I imagined a giant beautiful fox with fur as soft as the clouds and eyes twinkling like stars, pinched my emotions to manipulate me. While I saw its vibrant fur shimmering ethereally, of course in my imagination, strangely, it satisfied me.

And a beautiful fox was born.

After the birth of the beautiful fox, a hint of excitement fluttered in my chest, tempered by an undercurrent of nervousness.

As the warm hot sun filtered through my living room's window, casting golden rays on the polished floor, without thinking, I unrolled my light blue yoga mat for the first time in over a decade.

The first touch on the mat felt so foreign. As I moved into the downward-facing dog, my hamstrings screamed in protest. The sharp sensations raced through my body, igniting my awareness. Not hesitating, I pushed past the discomfort, feeling blood rush to my brain, heightening my senses.

I transitioned into warrior poses, arms extended, lungs gasping for breath. With every movement, the wobbly tremors in my arms became more pronounced, the instability whispering doubts in my ear. Yet, with each shaky attempt, I fell to my knees—first once, twice, then many times, laughing at my own struggle. I didn't care. I was surprised at the strength of my will compared to the one I had in 13 years of marriage.

“Where on earth did this strength and strong will come from?”

After the warrior poses, my mind went blank, “What is the next asana?”

I breathlessly returned to my feet and searched for "Ashtanga Yoga Primary Series" on Google. My trembling finger quickly picked a video. The name of the video was not even the primary series. It was THE IMPOSSIBLE by Laruga Glaser.

I forgot to blink, swallowed my breath, and just stared. Laguna the beautiful woman moved with an elegance that echoed the women I had glimpsed in my meditative reveries. She was moving smooth, timeless, gentle and strong.

Before me stood a manifestation of femininity, an essence I had never understood, yet yearned to embrace. As she flowed through her poses, I watched in awe, captivated by the beauty and strength of her Yoga, a powerful glimpse into the woman I aspired to become.

After watching it, my challenge became exhilarating, the resilience of my spirit overpowering the warnings of my body. When my legs trembled like jelly and my muscles screamed for respite, I found myself captivated by the process.

The sweat dripped down my brow, soaking into the yoga tops which I hadn't worn for 13 years.

Here I was, grappling with my limitations yet pushing against them with ferocity. Each drop of sweat felt like a testament to my strength which was hiding behind my emotions, a release of pent-up energy that had been stifled for so long.

The weight of thirteen years flooded my mind—a myriad of memories tied to motherhood, marriage, and, ultimately, my newfound independence. With each inhale, I reached deeper into myself, recognizing a flicker of my former self amidst the layers of responsibility and expectation.

Hot tears flooded my eyes, I started to recognise that Ashtanga Yoga was more than just a physical practice—it was an assertion of my identity, an affirmation of my independence. My emotions had covered them in my marriage. In this intimate space, away from the clamour of everyday obligations, I was reclaiming a part of myself that I thought had vanished.

As fatigue began to gnaw at me, I found solace in the rhythm of my breath. The struggle became a dance, a rhythm of effort harmonizing with the resolution echoing in my heart. I moved in and out of poses, occasionally collapsing as my body protested, only to rise again. It was exhilarating to battle against my limits, both physically and mentally.

Finally, I sank onto the blue mat like a deep ocean, gasping for air but alive with vitality and joy. Lying back in Shavasana, I allowed my mind to wander once more, glimpsing the woman I had been—a youthful dreamer who embraced adventure without hesitation when I met Yoga first time. I lived in Hong Kong.

I relished my time in Hong Kong, a distant memory now, yet vivid in its vibrancy. It was my first experience working abroad, a thrilling escape from the constraints of my parents and the rigid expectations of Japanese society. In those days, I truly lived like a fish to water.

My boyfriend, an English gentleman and DJ who dubbed himself "DJ Daddy Vegas," orchestrated parties pulsing with the rhythms of Funk music. Together, we revelled in the nightlife, surrounded by friends from all corners of the globe, each encountering a brushstroke on the canvas of my adventurous life.

One birthday, he surprised me with a gift that would open up new vistas. Insightful and tender-hearted, he recognized the transformative power of Yoga, a world I had yet to discover. He would later introduce me to Satchidananda, our meditation teacher, but first came the yoga. Since this gift, every Saturday morning become our sacred ritual.

I still vividly remember my first lesson. I was as rigid as a twig, my body a stranger to flexibility. As I bent forward, my fingertips hovered over ten centimetres away from my toes, an embarrassing distance that felt insurmountable for the rest of my life. Remarkably, that stiffness echoes in me still.

I used to practice diligently until marriage pulled me in another direction. After that, getting back on the mat felt like trying to find a needle in a haystack. I tried more times than I can count, but distractions became my new best friends.

“Concentration? Forget about it! “ They always said to me.

Yet, none of that mattered anymore. I just rolled out the mat and did it! The past was a distant echo; what mattered was the present moment, and I was determined to embrace it fully.

With my eyes closed and the warmth of the sun cradling me on the blue ocean, I embraced this realisation. Today was a celebration of my spirit, of the strength built through struggle, of a woman rising, determined and daring. I was not just returning to Yoga; I started reclaiming my essence, awakening from a long slumber.

I opened my eyes.

To be continued to 1.9. My Shadow

Dearest Subscribers and Readers,

I want to extend my heartfelt apologies for my absence over the past month. I took some time off to enjoy a holiday with my daughter, which was truly rejuvenating. Upon my return, without any special reason, I found myself immersed in a deep cleaning and decluttering project in my flat, which took longer than anticipated. Finally, I started writing and editing this chapter. I hope you will enjoy it.

I want to take this opportunity to express my deep gratitude to all of you, especially to my first subscriber, my meditation teacher Sachidananda, my first paid subscriber, my dear friend Nicola and other subscribers. Your support means the world to me and I am incredibly thankful for your dedication to reading my stories.

I'm also deeply grateful to my dearest friend Elfie, whom I met in Hong Kong. You saw our photo 20 years ago in my story. She was my first colleague and friend after I left Japan. We worked at the crepery cafe called Rendezvous in SOHO in HK and hadn't seen each other since then. Luckily, she came to Europe this summer with her lovely husband and two beautiful sons, and we had the chance to reunite in Prague. It brought me immense joy to see her looking so happy and thriving as a wife, mother and mature woman.

I'm excited that I've published the ninth chapter, My emotion” of my first book, KIOSK in Substack. The second book is titled "Sahara", and the third, "Moon", I'm currently writing the ending of the third book, and I can't wait to share the incredible experience I've had during my self-realization journey these few years.

Thank you for your patience and for spending your precious time with my stories. I hope you enjoy the latest chapter and look forward to sharing more with you soon.

Warm regards,

Yuko