“We’re going to have to go back to the beginning.”
I’ve come to anticipate this direction; but the first times, my heart sank and I considered looking for a different teacher, one who’d appreciate my development, praise the accomplishment, and promise new levels of prominence. It’s life on the straight-line graph, quick line starting from where the horizontal and vertical axes cross and zooming straight out the northeast corner, off the chart, into new-age heavens.
Except the big words go vacuous, fill with shallow charactertures, and a longing grows for more substance; but weighty matter cannot stand on flimsy foundations. So it’s back to beginnings, and with capacity to see more deeply, to construct more carefully, with sensitive care, even with the texture of love, with these earnings of experience, of reflected experience: a new beginning.
To lean into re-beginning doesn’t sniff at the helium exuberance of falling in love; it’s more like stretching through a familiar ache in the back, confronting the nag that says, “You’re too old for this” or simply says sotto: “Tomorrow.”
So today, after getting any technicolor hjinks out while on the lunge line, our direction promises mounted work, but only in black and white, contained at the walk, to hold counter-flexion with soft hands and anticipated response, to feel into the habituated silences, the subtle satisfactions, the surrenders of secrets.