I'm in Central Nepal, at the base of the Himalayas, where the monsoons are approaching. There are thunderstorms every afternoon and hail in the mountains. Last week I trekked toward Annapurna Base Camp — 80 miles that zig-zag up and through farming villages and Rhododendron forests, past shrines and stilted guesthouses and monkey-draped trees, over bridges and endless staircases, and eventually, through a glacial valley that spills out from the snow-capped peaks.
I'm fascinated by everyone who's drawn to these mountains: big Indian families, sporty middle-aged Koreans, an intimidatingly fit German film crew...spiritual seekers, outdoor adventurers, couples on holiday...wizened hippies and young drum circle types...we all sat together in the teahouses, massaging our calves by the fire.
At one point our guide, Sunil, mentioned a yogi and mystic named Sadhguru who rides dirt bikes through the Himalayas. Together we looked through photos of him — a man with twinkling eyes and a long white beard, plowing his bike through the mud.
Back in Pokhara, after the trek, I spent an afternoon in a cafe, where I happened to find a book by Sadhguru: Himalayan Lust. On the first page I learned that the Himalayan range is the youngest on Earth. The mountains, including Everest and Annapurna, emerged from a tectonic collision 50 million years ago, and they’re still growing today, inching upward at about 5 millimeters per year.
Huge volumes of this mountain collapse around itself simply because it is striving to grow, Sadghuru writes. If it becomes stagnant, these earthquakes and these landslides will not happen. But it wants to grow even at the cost of its own well-being.
I suppose it’s true that growth often feels like upheaval, violent and uncontrolled.
Nepal is the last stop on 20-country tour that began last April. Next week I'll fly from Kathmandu to New York, then eventually home to Honolulu, where I'll have a permanent address and a daily routine. I'm eager to return home but I worry about what will happen when normalcy resumes — will life feel monotonous? Will I regress into a bored, static version of myself? At the same time, I don't know how much adventure and freedom I can sustain. I'm tired.
I read a quote recently (now idk how to find it) about growth and containment, which are two sides of the same coin. Part of the self is always trying to expand, to stretch into a new shape — while another part contracts, trying to protect the familiar form. That duality is part of human nature, like the twin desires for comfort and novelty. But to me, the tension between these parts of myself can become unbearable. The tension feels like a personal failure, an inability to reconcile my deepest desires.
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On the trek I had hours every day to walk and think. I daydreamed and worried and speculated, and I thought about how much of my life I've spent seeking stability and order. At a young age, I learned there was a correct way to behave and perform; I played piano and danced ballet and practiced karate (lol); I learned how to control my body and focus my mind. As an adult, I coped with chaos by seeking control — restricting my calories and making to-do lists and scheduling my days. Even last year, when I quit my job and started traveling, I researched and planned and carefully budgeted. With few exceptions, I knew how many nights I'd spend in a given city and where the next plane or bus or train would go.
I've tried to change those patterns, but they're stubborn. I've spent decades training myself to be disciplined. How does one let go? I try to remember that the parts of myself I most value weren't built through coercion and brute force. They didn't require discipline and willpower. But I can still hear the same voice, the one that says: do more, be better, get your shit together, what's your excuse?
I know I've written about this topic before, so forgive me. It's the lesson I must learn over and over and over: to let go, to surrender, to have faith. It's all so frustratingly simple, so vague and cliched.
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Last November I visited Yakushima, a small island near Okinawa, off the coast of southern Japan. It’s home to the forests that inspired Princess Mononoke. If you’ve seen the movie, you can imagine the Yakusugi – ancient cedars, some of them five, six, and seven thousand years old. They reach up and out, their branches forming gnarled arches, doors, canopies, and bridges. I was euphoric, walking beneath those sacred trees, surrounded by magic and chaos.
The week before, in Kyoto, I’d visited a botanical garden with a greenhouse full of bonsai — rows and rows of elegant, tiny trees. Each branch was arranged with intention. No leaf was out of place. It was impressive, orderly, beautiful. But I’ve never stood in front of a potted plant and felt euphoria. Have you?
Since then, I’ve been thinking about the fact that the plants used for bonsai aren’t dwarf species. Genetically, they’re identical to the pines, elms, and maples that grow up to 150 feet in nature. The only difference is that bonsai are pruned and clipped, painstakingly contained.
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These ideas keep surfacing in my mind, the metaphors insistent. It could be a message from my subconscious: an invitation to crack open, to dissolve, to shed an identity built on self-control.
There is no safety in stagnation, Sadghuru writes. (I keep skimming his book, in spite of the title and my general skepticism of gurus.)
A seed is meaningful only for a certain span of time, but to remain a seed is stagnation.
If you try to keep anything in a state of stagnation, for sure you will lose it. The only safety is to make it grow.
Whether it’s your body or your mind or your life, the only safety is in allowing it to grow. There is no safety in stagnation.
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with love and Himalayan lust,
L
love being a sapling with you in this garden of life 🐒
oh, so much of this is relatable. I just said in therapy the other day that I didn't know if I was actually learning how to release control and surrender, or if I was just performing what I *thought* release and surrender looked like. My therapist reminded me that when it comes to growth, we can only think our way through so much. We have to feel into it. She asks me: What does control feel like in your body?What does chaos and uncertainty feel like? I am learning that control doesn't often feel like peace. It often feels like tension and heaviness. I am learning to listen to my body and get curious when I feel discomfort. Sometimes, the discomfort isn't coming from growth. Sometimes, it's coming from holding on too tightly.