Thank you, pyp! (a letter from Lauren)

On January 1, 2024 my beloved rooster died—killed by a hawk. I was unnerved by such an inauspicious way to start a new year, but tried not to think too hard about it. And then on August 21, 2024, my beloved sister died—killed by anorexia. My sister’s death was the second life altering, upending loss I’ve had in the last two years. I am not counting the rooster, whose name was Bombadil, and who was my companion, and whom I loved dearly, and whose death made me cry long and hard, in part because of the loss that preceded his death, and my suspicion that my sister’s death was looming.

I confess that in the midst of these losses I have become somewhat superstitious. I will not be shocked if on this January 1 an anvil falls from the sky and flattens me out on the pavement (in this scenario I, like so many cartoon characters, reconstitute myself to live another day, endure another misadventure).

Of course, an anvil will not fall from the sky and I will not be flattened to the pavement. But something else might happen that like so many metaphorical anvils might flatten me out into that state of exhaustion and sadness that we have all experienced in one way or another. But whatever does or does not happen will have nothing to do with superstition, nor will it have been foretold by any omen. There is no connecting the dots (though I surely try). It can only be explained in this—I was born human and I am living a human life.

Grief and loss is not the only thing that can be explained as such.

A friend came to my house last New Year’s Day and helped me honor Bomdadil’s brave little life because she was born human and is living a human life. My neighbors cared for my other chickens (and my cat and my dogs) while I was away visiting my family because they were born human and are living human lives.  While my sister was in hospice my colleagues told me again and again to do what I needed to do, even when it meant that they had to pick up some slack because they were born human and are living human lives. And from the PYP community I have been fed countless meals, left cards and flowers, sent dozens of messages saying in one way or another, “you are not alone” because all of us were born human and we are all living human lives, and to know and remember and act on that shared truth is the only way to survive all of our loving and our losing.

For so many of us, and certainly for me, PYP is one of the touchstones of our shared humanity. It is difficult to forget the humans who are born and living in the world when you are moving your body and breathing next to so many of them, bumping into them as you put your coat on, making eye contact with them as you check in for class. Something magic happens when you put your body in a room with other bodies with the sole purpose to move and breathe (I told you, I’ve become somewhat superstitious). And it is not beside the point that so many PYP classes end with all of us flattened out on the ground, then pushing ourselves back up slowly, tenderly, and taking a breath before moving on to do the next thing.

It has become customary for me to write this New Year newsletter. In one way or another I can only ever manage to express my gratitude on behalf of all of us at PYP for your presence, your practice, your commitment to yourself, to each other, and to us. That is as true this year as it has ever been. But this year especially I would like to say from me to you—thank you. You are a molecule of air in the giant life raft that has kept me afloat this year, and for that I am deeply grateful.

But there is something else, too. I often hear from people (before or after class, in a message, being stopped in public), “thank you for PYP.” And yes, there is a small handful of us who work quite hard to keep this thing going and another few dozen of us who show up to teach classes a daily/weekly/monthly basis. But none of that would matter without those of you who show up to be a part of this thing, this project we call PYP.

On behalf of myself, thank you.
On behalf of all of us who work at PYP, thank you.
On behalf of every person you made eye contact with, offered a smile to, or completely ignored but for the very fact of your showing up on your mat on a day that an anvil fell from the sky—thank you.

Love,

Lauren