Two months ago, I turned my life on its head by quitting my job and moving to New York City. It wasn't something I decided willy-nilly, but it wasn't a choice I could easily explain either. Yet, it was the only decision.

 

I've always followed paths that others have set for me. I went to the same college as two of my older sibilings. I moved back home after college because my partents suggested it. Even becoming an Equity stage manager was a path that others laid out for me. (Don't get me wrong, I worked my butt off getting there and doing it, but it wasn't a dream I chased down. It sort of just happened.)

 

I told myself I was "riding the current the Universe gave me." And that was true and wonderful. I learned and grew and carried on floating downsteam. Until my stream ran into a dam, and I was stuck in the pond it created. The pond seemed like a safe place: steady job, retirement plan, potential for a yearly raise that might just cover the rising cost of living. But the pond had a hidden danger: it was deep enough that I had to tread water at all times, and that was tiring me out more quickly than I ever expected. Safe as the pond was, I began to fear that I was slowly drowning.

 

At the same time that my stream branched into the course that would flow into that dam, I'd decided to finally take my yoga practice to the next level. After 10+ years of home practice (with varying degrees of devotion over that time), I had developed a daily yoga routine, but I had never taken a class in a studio. In fact, I was afraid of the yoga studio. Terrified that someone would tell me I'd been doing yoga wrong. (Later, I would investigate how this fear was connected to my struggles with perfectionism and a debilitating fear of disapproval, but I hadn't quite awakened to that little fact about myself just yet.) Thankfully, the Universe gave me a gentle nudge by way of a friend who had just gone through yoga teacher training, though she'd been teaching for months by the time I finally got the courage to take her class. And that made all the difference.

 

By the time I was slowly drowning in the pond, I'd made connections and grown to be part of the yogic community. Yoga had gone beyond the physical postures for me, and had started to work on me from the outside in. It had strengthened me enough to raise my head above the water and see that there might be a way out of the pond--if I was willing to take action. The Universe had thrown out a lifeline: I received the right amount on my tax return to pay for a 200-hr yoga teacher training, something I didn't think I could afford. My only outward excuse for not doing teacher training had been removed, it was down to my fears and self-doubts holding me back. Would I continue to tread water, content to stay in the same place, knowing that it might lead to my destruction? Or would I be brave enough to swim out and grab hold of the rope?

 

While at a satsang (a gathering for spiritual/philosophical discussion) on love last spring, the teacher--a dear friend and mentor--posed the question, "Would you pick yourself?" At that moment, we were talking about dating and relationships, but the question for me grew to be so much larger than that one category. Yoga had strengthened me physically, and now I understood that it had changed me mentally and emotionally as well, because my answer, as I made my first strokes to grab the Universe's lifeline and enroll in yoga teacher training, was finally, "Yes."

 

It was a small, timid yes, and one that I had to keep repeating through all of the weeks of my training. (And, I anticipate, through the rest of my life.) I'd grabbed the rope, but I now had to pull myself to the shore and climb to the top of the dam. Each day was a choice: would I keep moving forward, or should I tread water again? Many days I asked myself if I even had the strength to move forward. But at the same time, I was learning the lessons that would make me stronger:

I have the right to exist.

I am a creative being.

I am strong.

I am strong enough to know that I am enough.

I am worthy.

I can love unconditionally, and I am worthy of being loved unconditionally.

I know my truth and can speak my truth without fear.

And, most importantly, all beings are one with the Universe, including me.

 

(And to think, at the start of teacher training, I was just excited to learn some more Sanskrit and teach people how to properly align their Downward-Facing Dog!) Teacher training helped bring my life back into my hands in a very real and very fast way. But during my training, I began to become aware of the next question: What would happen when I reached the top of the dam? Had I learned the skills I needed to create a life raft and go back into my pond? Or should I face the other direction and see what else was out there, jumping off the edge into the unknown?

 

Here, the Universe wasn't afraid to butt in with some not-so-subtle signs. When I started yoga teacher training, I'd been stage managing the final show of my theatre company's season, Man of La Mancha. (Yep. A show all about a man living his truth. His impossible dream.) For closing, the cast gave me a statue of Hanuman, the monkey-god who is cursed to constantly forget his own divinity and is known for his great leaps of faith--praying for the strength to make it and then soaring through the air in a fabulous split leap to land on the other side of the ocean. The gift was made all the more touching by the fact that I consistently wore a pendant with Hanuman on it. The sign seemed clear: I'd spent my last season stage managing in Colorado Springs, and it was time to take a leap of faith into something new.

 

Still, fear kept me in the land of speculation instead of action. I'd think about what I might do next, but then quickly shut it down. As Hamlet tells us, "The undiscovered country...puzzles the will, and makes us rather bear those ills we have than fly to others that we know not of." Yes, he was speaking of suicide and I was merely looking at a major life change, but the feelings were undeniable. Letting go of my old life and starting something new and unknown was terrifying, and made me want to cling to what I had, even if it might slowly drown me. Fortunately, yoga teacher training still had more to give me. I learned that suffering begins with fear, and that fear is also a choice. I also made the most amazing and honest connections with my fellow trainees that I have ever had in my life. Yoga means "to yoke." And, like a yoke, it connected all of us. So when I finally voiced to my sangha (community) of fellow trainees that I wasn't sure if I should continue stage managing, I knew I could trust when one of them replied, "Sometimes the only step you can take is a leap of faith." And there was my sign again.

 

I could keep going on about signs--like the good friend from New York who suddenly switched to using my real name instead of my nickname, even though he had no clue that I'd only recently spent enough time with myself to realize that I preferred my given name--but suffice to say, there were many, and so as I got to the top of the dam and looked out at what I saw (and couldn't see) ahead, I started to listen.

 

I gave notice at work: the first show of their season would be my last. I told my family--they all turned out to be excited, saying it was the right point in my life for me to make such a decision. I found a place to live in NYC (after only two texts!). And finally, I loaded a suitcase with clothing, parked the rest of my belongings in my parents' barn, and took a leap of faith off the top of my dam: I boarded a flight to NYC.

 

As I flew over the city to land in my new home, it felt just like that: home. I knew I'd made the right decision. But I'd be lying if I said it's been all sunshine since then. The last two months have brought many things: a yoga injury; the struggles of finite space to put down a yoga mat; lack of routine; the fear and anxiety associated with doing something new and failing (like auditioning for the first time in five years); loneliness; and, worst of all, my nemesis: self-doubt.

 

Like Hanuman, I forgot myself for a while. I'll admit, I fell off the yoga wagon. After two years of daily home practice, I suddenly had none. After living a life of positivity and truth, I constantly gave way to tears. But, after descending into tears and letting my fears define me for a few weeks, yoga brought me back yet again. I was reminded that I can choose how I react to my life. And so I chose to find the humor, hope, joy, and love again. I remembered what I felt when I stood at the top of my dam and took my leap of faith. I put my trust back in the Universe. As Rolf Gates so beautifully states in Meditations for the Mat, I chose to "stop resisting life." And when I did, the Universe threw out another sign.

 

Laughing that I'd checked another "NYC first" off my list when my apartment building was without heat for several days (just before Christmas!), my boss--an incredible woman who I know was the reason the Universe led me to that particular job--said, "You should write a blog about your experiences."

 

It was like the Universe tapping the edge of a singing bowl. She wasn't the first to have suggested the idea to me. Just last summer, my mentor during yoga teacher training had said I should share my writing. But this time, it set off vibrations--like the gentle swell of my mother's singing bowls on Christmas day. There was intuition knocking again. And here's my newest leap of faith. I'm shaking off the doubts, fears, and puzzlement, and I'm hurdling right on into the next undiscovered country of my life. I'm not sure where I'll land, but I do know that I can trust the Universe to catch me.

 

Namaste!