This weekend I was gifted with a 48 hour period away from my normal story. My wonderful husband booked us into a tree house yoga retreat in the forest just outside of Sydney (at the amazing Billabong). It was just what my soul had ordered, yet the outcome was not exactly what I was expecting. In fact, what I ran up against as I came to my yoga mat multiple times each day was the strength of my own inner resistance.
What is not real never was and never will be.
What is real always was and cannot be destroyed”
This is the way that one of our oldest and most powerful human archetypes is described in an ancient Hindu text. A character that is born free, lives free and dies willingly knowing that this ultimate life initiation only leads to greater freedom.
This weekend was rainy. It was one of those early-winter days in the UK where the skies are a deep unending grey. The air was moist with what the English call ‘mizzle’; a misting rain that soaks you to the bone in a matter of minutes. Just as I was about to enter into another English habit of moaning about the weather, my eye caught a picture stuck to our fridge. It was an image of a six-year-old me and my two younger sisters, sat at our Grandparent’s table on a sundrenched Colorado summer day. The picture had been taken a three months before we had moved to England.