Chasing Waterfalls

Back in January, I started taking yoga classes regularly. Along with the fun flexi-bendy things I can do now, those two hours every week have helped me remember to listen to what is going on internally, think about the motion I am in and how to change it for the better. It also helped me stop doing happy hour too many times a week. When I started, I was having a major bit of a freak out about what the hell I was doing with my life. I had to remind myself that I still had months to figure things out, to plan ahead, and that I could deal with it in June. Well. Hello there, June.

The last time I went to the falls was July 12, 2013. I dragged my masochistic, hungover self out of bed and into a cab at some ungodly hour (re: 8:00 am) to beat the crowds and tourists. By then, I had been to Mosi oa Tunya in all seasons and at all times, including midnight for some lunar rainbow fun. I had lost count of the number of times I had gone and could tell you my favorite spots. But I had never gone alone. My intention that last time was to appreciate the beauty without any distractions, of course, but also to ground myself. Entering the park on the Zambian side, the first view is hardly the best one. And yet, you walk down the steps with your senses overloaded before you even lay eyes on the canyon. Reaching that first lookout point, my breath would catch every time.

It is impossible to describe the awesome (pause on awe, let it settle in your breath. That word is overused.) majesty of the drop, the roar, the white clouds of water, the sheer force of it all. All of your senses are swallowed by it. I sat down at that first spot and, being one of the very few in the whole park, started talking. At the time, I was preparing for a solo trip and, past that, the unknown. I had no idea what my next steps were or should be. I let out my fears and my doubts, poured by heart out without fear of judgment. My words disappeared in the appetite of the falls, and it calmed me. When I have too many feelings, get too wrapped in myself, it's the grand, magnificent things that remind me of my place in it all. I am comforted knowing that I am a speck, I am nothing compared to the forces around me, to my brief time compared to what has and what will be. I feel as if my choices cannot be wrong as long as I move with the intention of betterment.

But I digress. A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting in yoga class, trying desperately to focus on my breath and ignore the itch in my right foot. I came very suddenly to a very simple (some might say obvious) realization: I am terrified. I manage a fairly calm face when I tell people about Italy ("You're going alone?!"), my upcoming move to New York ("Sight unseen?!"), or my reasoning behind pursuing a further degree that will throw me into a chasm of debt (If you have asked me this, my sketched out answer has most likely been liberally colored in with a lot of bullshit). I am very happy with these decisions and feel strongly about doing things that scare me, and the change that those things can perpetuate.

And yet. Sitting in that studio, I wished desperately to open my eyes to oceans, mountains, sand dunes, and stars. I wished for something to remind me that I am good and important and small and insignificant. I wished for the chance to walk into that park and sit on the rock just beyond the railing (the one that gets the perfect amount of shade), losing my fears to the falling water, watching them evaporate into the mist rising high above my head.

Peace & Love
Elyse