The Life Between the Answers

Every morning at the Omega Institute, I walked fifteen minutes to the practice space.

The path wound through the campus beneath a canopy of old trees. Wildflowers lined the edges of the trail, and before long, they became part of my morning ritual. Almost every day, I stopped to photograph them. Some had opened overnight. Others were beginning to fade. I never set out to document the week. I was simply paying attention.

By the time I returned home, my phone was filled with photographs of flowers.

A few months later, they found a permanent home on my shoulder.

People sometimes ask what my tattoo means. I understand the question because I probably would have asked it too. The flowers remind me of a place, but even more than that, they remind me of the person I was becoming while I walked that path each day.

I had come to Omega only a few months after completing my 200-hour yoga teacher training. Something inside me had been awakened, and I wanted to keep learning. Kundalini was unlike anything I had experienced before. The practices were expressive, embodied, and rooted in breath. Some mornings felt fluid. Others felt awkward enough that I found myself laughing. Every practice invited me to stay with the experience a little longer than I normally would.

One evening, participants from several retreats gathered together in the chapel for a Kirtan Kriya meditation. Most of us had never met before. We sang Sa Ta Na Ma together while touching each fingertip to our thumb. Gradually, our voices softened from singing, to whispering, to silence. After several quiet minutes, the whispers returned, followed by the singing once again.

As I looked around the room, I wasn't thinking about the mantra.

I was watching a room full of strangers become a community.

No one had introduced themselves.

No one had shared their story.

For a little while, we simply breathed, sang, and sat together.

I remember walking back to my room that evening beneath the summer sky, turning one question over and over in my mind.

How could something so beautifully simple create such a profound sense of connection?

I didn't try to answer it.

The next morning, I noticed another flower along the path.

Months later, I chose to carry those flowers with me.

Even now, when I catch a glimpse of them in the mirror, they bring me back to that walk, that chapel, and that question.

I've come to believe that some questions aren't meant to be answered all at once.

They ask us to keep living with them, allowing them to shape the way we notice the world, the way we gather with others, and the way we continue finding our own way.

A Gentle Invitation

As you move through the week ahead, I wonder...

What question has quietly stayed with you, asking to be lived rather than answered?

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