I just wrote a LONG blog about why I left finance. It was primarily about two key events that bookended my “wall street” career. These events were very different from each other, yet profound (to me). They were described in great detail; what happened, when, who was there, how I felt. But the thing is, once I finished the blog, I realized the reason I left finance is actually pretty straight-forward. So I scrapped the long blog. Here’s the short and to-the-point version:
I left finance because I finally admitted to myself that I wasn’t following my heart. I was following a paycheck. Ever since I was a child, I felt like I was meant to write. I left banking so I could prove or disprove that belief. If I end up a successful writer, I’ll be endlessly grateful. If it turns out that I was wrong, that’s ok too. I’m attached to the process of discovering; any outcome is fine.
I’d rather know for sure. It’s as simple as that.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Gravity.
I fell out of a yoga pose the other day. It wasn’t a particularly complicated asana. I managed to ascend a mountain of balance, and while I was peeking over the edge from my sweet view at the top, gravity snuck up from behind and gave me a tiny nudge. I just closed my eyes and enjoyed the ride down. I briefly imagined my mat watching my ass heading toward it, sticking out invisible hands in protest, groaning the word “no” in baritone slow motion. It was, without a doubt, my loudest and most blatant fall in yoga. Ever.
My instructor made a joke about it being a fun pose to fall out of. I wanted to agree with that statement.
On a different day, I would have. My more familiar reaction to flubbing a pose usually involved laughing and moving on. Not that day though, it felt different. Instead of trying the position again, I surrendered into child’s pose. Then the strangest thing happened. My eyes filled with tears and I couldn’t stop a few from running down my cheeks. I didn’t feel sad, or embarrassed, or angry; the tears were the result of an emotion I hadn't felt before, one I couldn't describe in words.
I spent the subsequent days thinking about my tumble. I thought about how, on that day, I had been feeling grateful for a few people who deeply inspired me. These were people who believed in their messages and were brave enough to declare them publicly, with seemingly endless energy. I was feeling so grateful in fact, I had dedicated that practice to them. This made it even harder for me to get my head around my unfamiliar reaction to the failed asana. Why, when I was overflowing with naked gratitude, did I take a yogic slap in the kisser? And why was I even looking at it that way? The answer came a few days later, in the shower at the gym.
I created this blog over a year ago. I did so with the intention that once I left my Wall Street job for a writing career, I’d blog about my experience. I’d blog about it because leaving my job was a huge risk. I'd blog about it because I was stoked to (finally) be following my heart and a path more connected to creativity. However despite the fact that I left my job, this blog remained untouched. Sure, I had excuses. Life happened. But the fact remained I wasn’t writing enough. I wasn’t blogging (at all). My focus was out of focus.
But then I realized, in the shower at the gym, that I didn’t just fall out of a pose. Rather, I was the recipient of a gentle message from the universe, one perhaps co-signed by those inspirational people to whom I had dedicated that practice. The message was telling me to stop planning and intending, and actually start “doing". It was a wonderful, cosmic shove forward. It’s funny how sometimes it takes getting knocked on your ass to get you off it.
So here I am, ass in gear. Grateful, humbled, and energized.
And away we go. . .
My instructor made a joke about it being a fun pose to fall out of. I wanted to agree with that statement.
On a different day, I would have. My more familiar reaction to flubbing a pose usually involved laughing and moving on. Not that day though, it felt different. Instead of trying the position again, I surrendered into child’s pose. Then the strangest thing happened. My eyes filled with tears and I couldn’t stop a few from running down my cheeks. I didn’t feel sad, or embarrassed, or angry; the tears were the result of an emotion I hadn't felt before, one I couldn't describe in words.
I spent the subsequent days thinking about my tumble. I thought about how, on that day, I had been feeling grateful for a few people who deeply inspired me. These were people who believed in their messages and were brave enough to declare them publicly, with seemingly endless energy. I was feeling so grateful in fact, I had dedicated that practice to them. This made it even harder for me to get my head around my unfamiliar reaction to the failed asana. Why, when I was overflowing with naked gratitude, did I take a yogic slap in the kisser? And why was I even looking at it that way? The answer came a few days later, in the shower at the gym.
I created this blog over a year ago. I did so with the intention that once I left my Wall Street job for a writing career, I’d blog about my experience. I’d blog about it because leaving my job was a huge risk. I'd blog about it because I was stoked to (finally) be following my heart and a path more connected to creativity. However despite the fact that I left my job, this blog remained untouched. Sure, I had excuses. Life happened. But the fact remained I wasn’t writing enough. I wasn’t blogging (at all). My focus was out of focus.
But then I realized, in the shower at the gym, that I didn’t just fall out of a pose. Rather, I was the recipient of a gentle message from the universe, one perhaps co-signed by those inspirational people to whom I had dedicated that practice. The message was telling me to stop planning and intending, and actually start “doing". It was a wonderful, cosmic shove forward. It’s funny how sometimes it takes getting knocked on your ass to get you off it.
So here I am, ass in gear. Grateful, humbled, and energized.
And away we go. . .
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