I have fashioned a life around myself as a burr sticks to a wooly coat. Planted firm, if not so discreetly. Why do people refuse the news and succumb to the past when they know it does not work? I slithered out of my name with the ease of a reptile from its egg and chose something more suitable for the woman I am today. It is possible to be one thing and then something completely different if you desire it for yourself.

Arriving in Istanbul was more lackluster and did not satiate the impregnable longing I carried. The only way to quell this feeling of disaster is to write. I chanted the Tryambakam Mantra all day, from sunrise to the moment Emre left with that grim look on his face. He is a little sad on his insides. I don't need to see it on him to feel it.

A woman from Kazakhstan sat next to me on the plane. She carried six glass singing bowls in two oval bags too large to fit in the overhead compartments. Whose responsibility is it to monitor such things? The flight staff was distraught, and an argument broke out in Turkish, and she sat with her lips drawn in a line clutching the bags.

They will break! They will break! It will all be for waste! She kept saying, shaking her head.

We took off forty minutes later than scheduled because of the singing bowls. What an experience to be charged with. The first time she takes the mallets to the rim of the bowls, the argument will seep into the atmosphere. I wonder who will absorb it and if anyone will even notice.

I am through filling my days with distractions. Anything that does not contribute to the greater goal will be carved away, like the fat on the fish I purchased at the market. I waited in line for ten minutes behind a woman with blond hair and denim shorts. She kept checking her watch and rolling her eyes at the man pointing at the six different sizes of shrimp. I am content to wait my turn for things. For some people, life moves in accordance with their demands, and if it shifts a little bit off course, there is a calamity on their insides!

Control propels people toward discontent. It's silly when you consider it since we don't have authority over anything that goes on inside or outside of our being.

Except for the breath, which is a tedious task. Right now, I'm focusing on my inhale and pressing the back of my ribs into the black chair to charge the capillaries on my back body. This is what I tell my students to do. What sort of teacher would I be without practice?

I was the only one in the class yesterday evening who understood what the instructor was trying to do even though the class was in Turkish! It does show that intent and energy can overrule language. We had been shifting into a side crow with eagle legs, and the final peak pose was a twisted flying split. I understood because of my training. Without knowing a thing, how can you know to look for it? Isn't the hunt impossible if you don't know what you are looking for?

I want to educate and bring awareness to the subtle body. The spirit is merely an idea if you do not know how to act on it. Can you act on a soul? I think yes. Mantras, kriyas, breath, and bandhas are ways to access the essential quality of the spirit and bring light to it. It is a way of softening the darkness and illuminating the light. There is brilliance and badness in everyone, including me.

Others pick up on my ego when I engage the room during yoga. I feel that it rubs people like stroking a cat backward. It is uncomfortable to brush up against people in this way in the physical world, which is why I choose to write.

Writing makes me happy. The euphoria I feel when I sit down and present my thoughts to myself is more like scrubbing a dirty floor and less like licking an ice cream cone. There are many ways to be happy and just as many ways to be free.

Simone Weil believed happiness was a privilege. I agree. To consider the events and action items that give your life purpose means you've thrust yourself above the mundane day-to-day tasks into a layer where you can see the skyline. The bug in the rug, as Clara would call it. Work keeps so many people bound down in the carpet that it is impossible to see that there is room beyond the big balls of lint that keep collecting in the middle.

I've pulled the threads at the edges and unraveled the carpet. I worry about this sometimes, just how far I can undo what has been done. I am sick of reading the same allegorical tales. I want to craft something new from the musings of my mind. I dreamt about making fish and rice for dinner and kept boiling the salmon to the bones. I put the fish in a little silver pot and added dill, lemon, and butter. I left the fish in the pot till the pink was gone, and all that was left was the sparkly skin and translucent bones. This is a sign that indicates I'm ready to explore my inner landscape.

I am no longer waiting for validation to do my chosen things. I have affirmations; I don't need approval. I used to reach out to specific women for guidance, and I've finally realized how dangerous it is to rely on others to learn your soul's inner longing.

All I can do is listen. I lean too far forward in rooms with other people, and it's only because I want to hear the things that are not being said.

Emre was tired last night and wanted to be in his own home. I understand this. I don't feel that there is any manipulation to his story; he is honest with me. This is what I ask for. Truth above protection. Respect over adoration.

Passion, always, though with a purpose.

He was dating another woman, and he told me. He still sees her and still sleeps with her sometimes. He wants me to only be with him and no one else.

He doesn't need to make that request because I don't want to be with anyone else. I am very monogamous in this way when my heart is taken.

I told him this. I can feel that I have his heart also, so does it matter what he does with the rest of himself?

The other girl speaks Turkish, so they go for drinks and engage in light banter. Emre and I do not do this together. Our conversations are tilted, stalled, and abrupt. Punctuated by: Babe, you speak so fast! Slow Down. Sometimes I slap him when he says that, just on the arm and playfully. It annoys me. You Speed UP, I say back. And he just looks at me because he doesn't understand what I am saying.

The real curiosity of this conundrum is this: I've had the same issue with native English speakers. It is not the language barrier: it's me.

And I am ok with this.

I am also Ok with the men I date seeing other people other than me. Emre is the third partner I've had to request this. Part of me wants to stick a fork in his neck when it comes up, and the other part understands. What happens when we are not together is none of my business. I am not stuck to him like a burr; I do not want this style of partnership.

What rhythms of the past worked and what didn't? None of my relationships, in an intimate sense, have lasted. So why not try something new? Emre is constantly in motion; he rarely sleeps. I can feel his disquiet, and it is only because he does not know any other way to be. It doesn't feel like fear; it feels like a condition that's encircled him like a fog. How do you know what the sky looks like if clouds are always there? You need a wind to push them gently out of the way.

I Am the Wind. He is the flame that beats furiously at all hours, and this is a bit backward because I wanted to soothe the current, not stimulate it!

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