One in a billion

Please forgive the silence, dear reader.

It's been three weeks since we split up. Julie boarded the night train to Mumbai; I remained to haunt the beaches of Palolem.

The reasons are, of course, complex, the implications dramatic. There is much to say, and likely only more with the passage of time. But, apart from this post, this blog is not the place.

We spent our last day together walking the beach, holding hands, crying. Wishing each other well. For me, time has dragged slowly since her departure. I spent the first night in our room, newly cavernous and lonely. Now I am between Mars and Jupiter.

I'm in a tiny but well-appointed hut just off the beach that somehow missed the celestial naming conventions of the rest of the compound — "our only one for a single person" intoned the incredibly kind hotel manager. When he agreed to the rock-bottom price that I could justify for moving from the room we shared to this little hut near the beach, I nearly burst into tears and hugged him.

Between Mars and Jupiter is where the asteroids orbit, their mutual attraction perpetually thwarted by the meddlesome gravity of their environment. A ring of icy shards and rocky fragments where a whole complete world might have been, unseen sunsets and beaches of its own.

Between Mars and Jupiter, I have been oscillating between the supreme patience befitting a giant (no worries that my masala chai will take 30 minutes to deliver this morning) and the urgent desire to punch someone in the teeth (note to obnoxious laser-pointer wielding beach-combers: make sure your dental insurance policy is current). Thankfully, the warlike impulses have been subsiding thanks to the soft sand on my feet, the persistent wash of the waves and the time spent each day on my life raft in the shape of a yoga mat.

In addition to affording helpful time to focus and the visceral sense of being embodied that I love about the discipline, it's remarkable how much spending ninety minutes a day in yoga practice can release, and not just in the muscles and connective tissue. As the first waves of emotion about my new circumstances recede, the next waves of sadness, grief and uncertainty present themselves. I can only trust that with time these too shall pass. Or at least soften.

I've also been lucky to have found a group of fellow travelers in this place who help it feel much more like an interim home than a generic place to stay. (And, paraphrasing the sagacious George Latimer, "interim" is an unnecessary modifier, since in fact everything is interim, a notion reinforced many times in these travels.) My new friends were the first people I told about Julie and me, and it took weeks to feel ready to talk to the more permanent constellations in my life. (This is unusual — Julie and I are both lucky to have amazing people in our lives, and my instincts in times of drama usually lead me immediately to family and friends. This time, it seems, is different.)

I'm not planning any sudden moves. In fact, I don't have any plans except to let the yoga practice, the sand under my feet and the waves crashing on shore work their magic. I can only trust that whatever comes next will take shape in due course. In the meantime, I sit in my nameless little house, breathing and reflecting while time passes and the planets circle about.