I Love the Ox
For some reason, there's an imprint in my mind of the way I used to look.
I close my eyes and there I am.
Youth.
Vitality.
Vigor.
Maybe everything but wisdom.
Then I stand in front of the mirror one morning and think,
"This is not my beautiful face. This is not my smooth skin. This is not my hairline."
It's a bit shocking.
I don't know why, but I wonder if any of you feel the same way—that somewhere inside, you still see yourself as that younger version.
I still feel like I'm sixteen and certainly act that way sometimes... just ask Sarah! But I don't look sixteen anymore.
But I also don't see this as wrong. A bit jarring—especially before that first cup of coffee—but certainly not wrong.
Sometimes we forget that the younger version of ourselves is still here. That beautiful spirit still rises within us. It has the same joy, the same curiosity, the same capacity for play and laughter that it had when we were children.
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And then we overlay the heaviness of adulthood.
I remember an exhibit at Disneyland years ago. You put your face up to a machine and it would show what you'd look like when you were old.
I remember seeing that image...
...and never wanting to go back.
We overlay the wrinkles in our skin, the shape of our bones, the receding of our hairline, and the changing color of it as well.
Sometimes the mirror can be brutally honest while, at the same time, filling us with doubts about our own true nature.
Honest.
Blurry.
At the same time.
I feel that way too sometimes.
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The wonderful spiritual teacher Ram Dass talks about polishing the mirror.
For me, that means seeing things clearly—but not just at the surface level.
At a level that is far deeper than that.
At a level that honors and appreciates what it took to arrive at this grizzled look that I sometimes see on my face and in my body.
There is wisdom in the years.
I asked my father, "Would you rather have youth or wisdom?"
I think you can guess his answer.
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I've always found it interesting to look at trees.
No two trees—even of the same kind—look alike.
In fact, the more gnarly a tree looks, the more fascinating it becomes to me.
The knots.
The twists.
The outgrowths.
The way the trunk has risen from the earth to support its ever-growing limbs.
What's even more fascinating is that we rarely judge the tree as ugly or as showing signs of age.
Instead, we admire it.
We call it sturdy.
Resilient.
Able to weather storms.
The more a tree has adapted to its environment, the more we stand in awe of it.
As Paul McCartney wrote,
"The willow turns his back on inclement weather."
If the willow can do it,
perhaps we can too.
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And are we not the same?
Are we not affected by the winds of time?
Do we not bend and grow and support ourselves in different ways in order to continue holding ourselves—and our families—upright?
Can we not see ourselves as we see the tree when we look into the mirror?
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Recently, Sarah and I have been practicing something beautiful.
We're simply allowing each other to be exactly as we are.
Recognizing that we're both going through changes and adjustments—just like the tree.
Instead of firing up the chainsaw and the branch pruners and trying to make that tree look like something it's not...
We're becoming curious.
Why is this branch growing in that direction?
What is causing these leaves to turn this way?
With that curiosity, we've almost naturally stopped judging each other.
Stopped trying to change each other.
And something magical has begun to arise.
Peace.
Understanding.
Compassion.
Curiosity.
And the byproduct of all of those things...
Contentment.
Joy.
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When Sarah and I first met, we had the spiritual equivalent of beer goggles on.
We saw each other as these beautiful, perfect beings.
Our first date lasted twelve hours.
Joy.
Laughter.
Understanding.
Empathy.
Compassion.
Then life quietly steps in and asks,
"Can you find that person again tomorrow?"
Can you see that perfection again?
Often, we can't.
Instead, it becomes this beautiful journey of remembering.
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In yoga there's a beautiful concept that's often described as hide and seek.
Throughout life, our true nature is revealed to us.
Then it becomes hidden again.
So we set off on another journey.
Another little odyssey.
Searching once again for the person we really are.
And perhaps that same pattern repeats with the people we love.
It wasn't that Sarah and I disappeared from each other.
It was that we had to make it a daily commitment...
To discover one another again.
Last year I wrote a song called Here and Now.
Listening to it recently, I realized that the song spoke of this.
It says:
"I will find you every day. Let's rendezvous."
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Well, at any rate...
Sarah and I have started seeing each other for who we are.
We've even begun seeing ourselves for who we are right now.
The struggles.
The shifts.
The pains of change.
But also the excitement of what's next.
And the stability of having someone to lean on.
So much of life shows itself on the surface.
The receding hairline.
More salt than pepper in the beard.
The laugh lines.
The smile lines.
The critical voice that notices every little thing.
And I find myself thinking...
"Damn... it took a lot to get here."
What an amazing ride it has been.
Wherever you are today...
Your outer self carries the miles and the years of your journey.
And yet somewhere deep inside...
Your soul still feels boundless.
Unchanged.
Still full of possibilities.
A place to meet.
A rendezvous.
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I guess the underlying truth is something Arun keeps reminding me.
Yoga teaches us to tell ourselves the truth.
Maybe that's all polishing the mirror has ever meant.
Not simply seeing our wrinkles.
But seeing the life that those wrinkles represent.
Then I remembered something my kindergarten teacher taught me long before I knew anything about yoga.
Hide and seek always ended the same way.
"Olly olly oxen free."
Maybe that's what we're all waiting to hear.
Maybe that's who we've been searching for all along.
Not the younger version.
Not the perfect version.
Just the true one.
We've been looking for you.
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ROAR with Love,
Danny
The Emotional Driver
“Emotion Is the Note. You Are the Song.”
