For months now, all my youngest has talked about is the perks of being a wallflower, a book by Stephen Chbosky. Last summer, she saw the movie, then, she read the book. When it was time to get a copy of the book, my daughter wanted her father to buy her the copy with the faces of the cast members from the movie on the cover. Naturally, that way she could revisit them over and over while reliving the scenes from the movie as she read the book. However, the only copy the bookstore had when my husband arrived to buy the book was the other version, the original version, the version of the book with the cover before the movie was made. This version was without those familiar face; those faces that made my daughter fall in love with the story even more. You know, because she had already fallen in love with them when she saw them in the film.
She survived this disappointment in the way all 12-year-old girls survive this kind of thing, by insisting that she was not going to like this copy of the book. Nonetheless, and in spite of herself, she did like it. She read the book. No. She devoured the book, and more than once. She desperately wanted to go back to the theater to see the movie again. Ultimately, she had to settle for waiting for the DVD to be released. In our home, that's all we've heard about since Christmas. In fact, it was a big disappointment to her that the DVD was not going to be ready by Christmas. She had to wait. And finally, for Valentine's Day, we presented her with the movie, and we all sat down together to watch it with her. And you know what, I fell in love with it, too, the story and the characters, and not just because it was February 14, a day that everyone makes a big deal about hearts and flowers and saying "I love you." I understood why my daughter talked incessantly about the movie--and the book--and it sort of scared me in the way that parents get scared when they realize that their children know a lot more than they're given credit for knowing.
What did I like so much about the movie? It reminded me of how painful it is to grow up. It reminded me of how vulnerable we are. It reminded me of how miserable and wonderful that all was. How bittersweet. I hear this, too, in one of the more recent Taylor Swift songs my daughter is always playing "Yeah...we're happy, free, confused, and lonely at the same time. It's miserable and magical, oh yeah." Wow. That's it. Exactly. And, once, long ago, I was young, just like that, and I felt things in such a big way. Too many things sometimes. Like the characters admit in one particularly poignant scene in the perks of being a wallflower, "I felt infinite."
I won't even touch that line with any explanation because you cannot explain it. You have to feel it; and if you've ever felt it, you know what I mean. You feel so much of yourself and so outside of yourself all at once, and, suddenly, it no longer matters that you don't know or don't understand because you are in this one moment so completely that it's, it's...infinite.
When I go to the Shala to practice in the evening, I am reminded of this. I get a glimpse, during my evening practice, of my infinitude. Don't get me wrong, it's not easy to practice in the evening; it's really difficult to get to practice after the whole day has had its way with you. But, once there, after the first few Surya Namskaras (sun salutations), I feel as though my practice is limitless and, well, effortless. In fact, last night Itay said, "if you ever need an ego boost about your practice, come practice in the evening." He's right. It's true. Without all that effort, I feel so weightless...as if I could just about fly.
I suppose that's why children make angels in the snow. We'll take any opportunity to spread our wings and soar.
The Maharishi wrote that "self-realization alone is true birth." Perhaps this is what I have felt when I have felt infinite. That I alone have suddenly grasped something about myself that always somehow felt beyond myself or beyond my ability to reach it. And that's it. Feeling infinite is like dropping away and letting go and being right where you are meant to be. Like it feels to be an angel in the snow.
She survived this disappointment in the way all 12-year-old girls survive this kind of thing, by insisting that she was not going to like this copy of the book. Nonetheless, and in spite of herself, she did like it. She read the book. No. She devoured the book, and more than once. She desperately wanted to go back to the theater to see the movie again. Ultimately, she had to settle for waiting for the DVD to be released. In our home, that's all we've heard about since Christmas. In fact, it was a big disappointment to her that the DVD was not going to be ready by Christmas. She had to wait. And finally, for Valentine's Day, we presented her with the movie, and we all sat down together to watch it with her. And you know what, I fell in love with it, too, the story and the characters, and not just because it was February 14, a day that everyone makes a big deal about hearts and flowers and saying "I love you." I understood why my daughter talked incessantly about the movie--and the book--and it sort of scared me in the way that parents get scared when they realize that their children know a lot more than they're given credit for knowing.
What did I like so much about the movie? It reminded me of how painful it is to grow up. It reminded me of how vulnerable we are. It reminded me of how miserable and wonderful that all was. How bittersweet. I hear this, too, in one of the more recent Taylor Swift songs my daughter is always playing "Yeah...we're happy, free, confused, and lonely at the same time. It's miserable and magical, oh yeah." Wow. That's it. Exactly. And, once, long ago, I was young, just like that, and I felt things in such a big way. Too many things sometimes. Like the characters admit in one particularly poignant scene in the perks of being a wallflower, "I felt infinite."
I won't even touch that line with any explanation because you cannot explain it. You have to feel it; and if you've ever felt it, you know what I mean. You feel so much of yourself and so outside of yourself all at once, and, suddenly, it no longer matters that you don't know or don't understand because you are in this one moment so completely that it's, it's...infinite.
When I go to the Shala to practice in the evening, I am reminded of this. I get a glimpse, during my evening practice, of my infinitude. Don't get me wrong, it's not easy to practice in the evening; it's really difficult to get to practice after the whole day has had its way with you. But, once there, after the first few Surya Namskaras (sun salutations), I feel as though my practice is limitless and, well, effortless. In fact, last night Itay said, "if you ever need an ego boost about your practice, come practice in the evening." He's right. It's true. Without all that effort, I feel so weightless...as if I could just about fly.
I suppose that's why children make angels in the snow. We'll take any opportunity to spread our wings and soar.
The Maharishi wrote that "self-realization alone is true birth." Perhaps this is what I have felt when I have felt infinite. That I alone have suddenly grasped something about myself that always somehow felt beyond myself or beyond my ability to reach it. And that's it. Feeling infinite is like dropping away and letting go and being right where you are meant to be. Like it feels to be an angel in the snow.
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