Beauty exists

I'm home from Omega Institute a day earlier than I expected. Over these eight days I gathered this writing in bits and pieces, and now I've stitched them together to share with you.

For the first time in twenty years, I drove three hundred miles alone. I have always made long drives in the company of my husband and kids, so this was new to me, and a new me is excited about this new chapter in my life. On the way, I stopped for a pizza, because my kid insisted I try one from Dave Portnoy's reviews. I ate a couple of slices and carried the rest with me to share. It's Classico in New Jersey if you are interested.

My assignment was simple: teach two classes a day, one at seven in the morning and another at half past five in the evening. My needs were simple too: a bed, hopefully a warm one, and a door I could close when I slept.

Where I teach has never troubled me. In fifteen years I've taught in grand, gorgeous studios, on a patch of concrete in a parking lot, in parks, and in my tiny basement. All I need are a few students who want to deepen their practice and who have a goal of their own, whether it's physical strength, mental well-being, clarity of thought, or spiritual alignment. That is where I find my fulfillment: in offering a steady practice that keeps them committed to it.

But I did carry one quiet intention with me. Lately I've noticed how rational and practical I've become: mornings timed, classes streamlined, everything optimized. The food still gets plated with love and intention, then photographed, posted, moved on from. The garden still gets tended, but lately it's weeded the way email gets answered: quickly, between other tasks. I love beauty, but I'd stopped letting it slow me down. So I gave myself a second assignment at Omega: let beauty interrupt me.

Because how do you even look for beauty? You don't search for it. It simply exists. It lives in people's hearts, in nature, in the art you're creating, in the conversation you're having:

the softness of someone's smile

the twinkle in the eyes

the warmth of the heart

the blossoming of a flower

the falling of the leaves

the way a window steams up on a warm fall afternoon, once the rain stops

The first few days it rained heavily. Apart from teaching, I slept, woke, chanted a little, and read. And when the rain finally stopped, the windows steamed, and I couldn't resist tracing shapes on them with my fingers.

At Omega, I ate a little of this and a little of that: textures, aromas, the clatter of spoons. The porch of the dining hall is lined with bright yellow tables. Sometimes I sat there alone, but never for more than five minutes. Someone would join with a plate full of food, then another, and soon we were twelve. The conversation was sometimes loud, sometimes hushed because someone was sharing a deep secret. It drifted from pottery to music to art, from trends in spirituality to what makes a marriage work, from the joys of life to its regrets, to memories of how our parents raised us. I shared how my relationship with my children is changing as they grow older, and the not-so-secret secret to a long arranged marriage. I love people who challenge my thinking, who open new doors, and I love watching people live in a hundred different ways, ways beyond my imagination.

My classes held their own conversations. Every class felt new, because new people were always joining in. I always began with a little dance of introduction: how I teach, what the class will be, its format. And then, I taught. Afterward, the students, who didn't know me any more than I knew them, spoke of how they came to yoga and how it changed their lives. Some were new, just tiptoeing in. Some had practiced for decades, and still they found every class unique. They came with a fresh mind, because, as they felt, it isn't about how long you've practiced. It's about the intention you bring to the mat.

I enjoyed every single one of them. I watched the light fall across their heads, casting little shadows as they moved through the postures I taught, and I tried to see the beauty in that. I feel connected now to the space where I taught. It's called the Lake Theater. Isn't that a beautiful name? For that brief hour each day, it felt as though I was performing. Performing, teaching, offering.

I have new shoes, by the way, with good ankle support, and now, when I step, my feet make a different sound. Not so flat against the surface of the Earth. Almost a little bounce. I love listening to that footstep as I walk among the falling leaves. And I walked for many, many hours alone: in the rain, under cloudy skies, and in the warmth of the sun peeking through the canopy of autumn leaves.

I drove to little towns with only a few stores, towns my friend said felt like something out of Sesame Street: a lovely bakery, a Thai place, an Indian place, a couple of gift shops, a post office, a fire station, a gas station. I stopped by Bake Alone for a focaccia sandwich with hummus and pickled vegetables.

Another drive took us along a scenic road through the changing colors. I absolutely love early fall, when it's still mostly green, and then, as if watercolor were spreading itself seamlessly, a little orange appears, a little red, a little yellow. Sometimes it almost glows neon, but the backdrop stays green. That is my favorite fall color, more than the deep, saturated colors of a sunset.

On my last morning, I sat once more at a yellow table in the bright sun, with the people who had somehow become my friends. They asked what I thought of it all: teaching at Omega, being at Omega, walking its grounds.

"I had very low expectations," I said.

One of them gently pushed back. "I'm not asking about expectations. What do you really think?"

I'm still processing. I don't yet know what I think. But I know what I found. I was able to connect back to beauty, and I came home knowing it has many names:

Beauty is love.

Beauty is joy.

Beauty is invocation.

Beauty is spirit.

Beauty is the language of the heart.

There is a beautiful phrase from the Indian scriptures: Satyam, Shivam, Sundaram. Truth, reality, beauty. The place where all three meet is a place of immense contentment, peace, and joy.

So no, I don't think we go looking for beauty. We slow down, and it is already there. Whenever my practical nature pulls me back into the rush of everything around me, I'll remind myself to stop and make time for it. I hope you find a moment to slow down and notice it too. May you stay the course of all three.

Namaste

Savitha