A few weeks ago I took the boys mountain biking on a trail near my home that outlines the Deschutes River. I come here a few times a week to run with my Aussies or nurture a love of nature in my kiddos.
Let's just say I know this path intimately. I commune with specific trees; notice how the temperature changes affect the color-palette; and all the best views to see the sky reflected in the water just so. I’m familiar with the chirps of the birds, the scampering of chipmunks and the sounds of deer rustling in the distance.
On this particular visit; however, the boys and I saw a big ol’ heron soaring inches over the water, its wingspan seemingly as wide as the river itself. All three of us stared in awe until it finally landed in a tree on the opposite bank. For a long while we paused eyes locked on that tree, calling out to it, begging it to fly again. But there it stayed perched, statuesque and stoic.
After waiting a number of minutes (which is forever when you are 2 + 4 years old), we continued our adventure. Dalton on bike. Me on foot, Jonny on my back smacking me saying “Mom. Bird. Fly. Mom. Bird. Fly.” I paused every few steps to see if the heron had moved.
It hadn’t.
And then it did. I called out to Dalton who was further down trail and took off running in the direction the bird was flying. The trees can be quite thick at places blocking the river view, and I was worried we were going to miss our bird soaring away.
Then, just as I got to an outcropping, I saw a second heron join the first and fly out of sight together. I didn’t say anything to Dalton in case he didn’t see, avoiding the dreaded response that happens when he misses what I am pointing out.
But he saw it.
“MOM! There’s TWOOOOO!!”
In my story, these two are lovebirds reuniting, flying off into the sunset.
What a moment in time. A special occurrence on our well-worn road.
As we made our way back to the car, I began contemplating the ever-changing terrain of the familiar paths we travel.
Most days that I walk this trail are enjoyably mundane. There’s a steadiness to the experience of being with habitual surroundings, a comfort in the routine.
Sometimes I see things that have obviously been there for ages, but I’ve never noticed. Other times I am in lost in my mind, attention splintered without presence to what’s underneath my feet or the beauty that surrounds me.
And then there are the vivid memories woven into the fabric of my being. Like the time I was trail running with my Aussie Shepards and a raven followed us for miles and miles. I call that day Running with Ravens. To that list, I now add Heron Lovebirds Soaring.
The point is, it’s different each time yet each time, revealing. The magic is in the repetition.
Every time we step onto our mats or sit on our meditation cushion, we travel a similar path inward. We peek into corners of our bodies and psyches. We practice patterned breathing and notice changes in the way it feels. We do the same poses again and again and reflect on our current evolution of self. The time on the mat is a way of getting more intimate with who we are, understanding our reactions, our emotions, our thought patterns, our judgments, desires and behaviors.
We can only notice the subtle shifts or distinct experiences if it is a path we walk often.
Without consistency, we loose our attunement and grow ignorant of our internal landscape. For we, just like the forest and the trail, are constantly changing.
Here we are mid-November about to enter the bustle of the holidays, the ending of one season and the start of another, the ending of one year and the beginning of the next. These upcoming months are full of external changes and often external focus. I find this a critical time to get to the mat and check-in. How does this time when our outer world is magnified effect our inner environment?
Our hope here at YoYo is to provide a sanctuary that encourages you to stay consistent with your practice even when it is so easy to press the pause button until 2027.
MAD LOVE YoYos. We got this! 🍂🦃❄️🎄🧨
K