Right now, my house looks like an unruly shrine to all things yoga-related. The ground floor is littered with boxes filled with mats, blocks, straps and mat sprays: there’s just enough room for people to get past the door and settle themselves onto the couch—on the bits, at least, that don’t have a yoga towel on top.
And to think, we’ve got another 30 boxes coming in on Monday.
All of this is the inevitable by-product of having to order equipment and props in advance while waiting for their final home to be constructed. Given that the process of creating the studio has involved learning one existential lesson after another, I suspect that this particular ordeal has a lesson to teach me as well, namely: being with chaos.
So far, I’ve been a bit slow on the uptake. Five minutes after declaring to Abbey that “I’m not going to fix anything because we’ll have to truck all of this away in three weeks anyway,” I was back downstairs ordering the boxes in little soldierly lines, making sure the labels were facing the right away and the colors were all grouped together.
All of which makes me wonder how much energy I expend on any given day trying to order my universe in hundreds of mindless little ways, in a constant fidgeting that expresses itself in lining up bottles, putting away shoes, smoothing away wrinkles and tidying up desktops. It drives the people I live with batty because I do it so unconsciously.
(Which leads me to a slightly off-tangent point: it’s curious that the very concept of order itself can be so dis-orderly. We all have our idiosyncratic ways of imparting sense to the world—very few of which make sense to other people. An excellent way to observe this is to attempt to decode how people organize their computer files: more often than not, we’ll think our system is infinitely better.)
But now, with the studio opening in exactly three weeks and time becoming scarcer and scarcer, I might finally have to let go of my cherished notions of order—so I can (finally) pay attention to infinitely more important things.