We’ve been spending a lot of time at
our cabin on Smith Island, Lake Nipissing, middle of nowhere, northern
Ontario. No running water, no electricity, quieter than the Dalai
As it gets dark in the evening (4pm in
the dead of winter, a bit later now), we light candles. Lots of
them. And one by one, without the instant gratification of light
switches, power lines or hydro poles, we create enough light to
find our way to the woodpile, to kettles and teacups, toothbrushes and bed. It takes forever to boil water on our little woodstove,
which is all right because there’s nothing else to do. This non-pace took a bit of getting used to. Now we sit,
mostly, saying very little, amazed by how beautiful everything is in
the light of the tiny flames.
My progress with yoga is slower than
I’d like. That might say more about my impatience than it says
about yoga. I thought by now I’d be making yoga DVDs of my
own. I thought I’d be a walking, Om-ing advertisement for yoga. I thought
I’d be out-Seane-Corning Seane Corn. It’s not happening.
On the days I’m discouraged by this,
I think of the candles. With each morning practice, I light
something so small even I can’t tell the difference. Over time it adds up, I know it does, though it may never amount to power lines and
transformers, or to handstands in the middle of the floor, full
lotus, and easy hamstrings. I am what I am.
But every morning I practice, every
time I light the tiniest candle, I contribute to something beautiful
for myself. I am, slowly, SLOWLY, becoming someone I’m happier to
spend quiet evenings with.
Has this happened to you?
Thanks to yoga for helping me find patience. Thanks to you for the conversation,