YOGAJOURNAL.COM 73assaulted a decade ago. My career and fortune had taken a sudden
left turn, and I left marketing to begin writing full time. I was a raw
nerve, loose on the Venice boardwalk, trying to find some sense of
equilibrium. One night I found myself drawn to the water. Under
the light of a full moon, I waded into the Pacific and let the warm
salt water lap against my legs, then my hips. The pull I felt had
nothing to do with riptides or undertow. Instead I was compelled
by something that came from within.
Drishti isn’t just a matter of finding an external point against
which to balance your body. There are several different types
recommended for various yoga practices and poses: Nasagra drishti
is focus on the tip of the nose, and it may come in handy during
backbends or forward folds. Hastagre drishti (focus on your hand in
front of you) is lovely in Virabhadrasana I (Warrior Pose I) or Utthita
Parsvakonasana (Extended Side Angle Pose). Bhrumadhya drishti is
the most inward facing, in which you focus on your own third eye.
Any type of drishti will ultimately have you experiencing
two of the eight limbs of yoga described by Patanjali. One is
dharana (steadiness or concentration) and the other is pratyahara
(controlled withdrawal). The goal of softly focusing your gaze—
whether on the tip of your nose or on a spot on the wall across
the room—is actually to draw your attention inward. You look
beyond your body in order to withdraw into it. Your spirit becomes
grounded through the act of surrendering to your own instability.
Ever since that first night in Los Angeles, I find myself drawn
to the Pacific at moments of great transition. Last year, I wanted
to flee the anniversary of a yuletide breakup that had marred the
holidays. I booked a flight to San Francisco and spent Christmas
morning sitting on a piece of driftwood at Ocean Beach, watching
the surfers patiently bobbing on the small, ruffled waves, popping
up to balance on their boards whenever a big curl came through.
This past April, a dear friend came to visit me at my new home in
Portland, Oregon. She and I went through twin years of loss in 2017:
Breakups, professional setbacks, and domestic frustrations. Both of
us were trying to recalibrate our lives to a new normal.
Hannah had never seen the Pacific, so I drove her out to Haystack
Rock one chilly, gray afternoon. We walked up and down Cannon
Beach, buffeted by rivers of wind that carved winding paths through
the loose, dry sand. We contemplated the ways in which our own
lives had been radically reshaped by unpredictable forces. Deeply and
utterly, we felt the kernels of ourselves within the tides of chaos.
Right now, writing by the Pacific, overlooking the Santa Monica
Pier, I feel another sea change coming on. Old pieces of me are
washing and wearing away. But practice has taught me what I need
to do to prepare, to weather this tipping point. Up and down the
West Coast, I know now where to find my focus, my drishti, a sense
of continuity. There is stability in the Pacific’s constant motion.
There is certainty in its immutable changes. Of this I am certain: the
same is true of myself.Balance has never been my strong suit. As
a child, my vestibular system was so off kilter,
I spontaneously fell off stools and chairs
like a pintsized barfly after last call. Walking
through doorways was like threading
a needle. Physical therapy helped, but the
gangly coltishness of adolescence made for
another round of clumsy bumps and bruises.
When I got into yoga in my teens and
twenties, it was a relief when my teachers
asked us to find drishti—a fixed point against
which to orient my body and mind while
trying to stick tricky balance poses such
as Natarajasana (Lord of the Dance Pose),
Parivrtta Ardha Chandrasana (Revolved
Half Moon Pose), and Vrksasana (Tree Pose).
Finding an external concentration point
made it easier to keep my body steady and
stable. Or at the very least, it made it easier
to detect when I was about to tip over.
As an adult, I struggled to find balance of
a different sort. I was as lacking in emotional
equilibrium as I had been in grace as
a child. My twenties were a murky gyre of
unsuitable men, anxiety, depression, and
more whiskey than I’d like to admit. It wasn’t
that I lacked focus—I simply couldn’t seem
to find the right thing to fix my ambitions
upon. Every wobble, whether in love or
work or family life, made me doubt myself
a little more.
A few years ago, I visited Los Angeles
for the first time as an adult. At 28 years
old, I wasn’t just wobbling, I was reeling,
fresh off the revelation that I had beenFinding
Drishti
The secret to finding my
equilibrium wasn’t in becoming
more grounded, it was in the big
Pacific Ocean.
MEGHAN O’DEA is a writer, world traveler, and life-long learner who hopes to visit all seven continents with pen and
paper in tow. Her work has been featured in the Washington Post, Fortune, and more. Learn more at meghanodea.com.