FINDING
DRISHTI
68
july 2019yogajournal.com.auThe secret to finding my equilibrium wasn’t in becoming
more grounded, it was in the big Pacific Ocean.
By Meghan O’Dea
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 pint-sized barfl y
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 fi nd drishti—a
fi xed 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 fi nd
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 fi nd the right thing to
fi x 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 fi rst time as an adult. At 28 years
old, I wasn’t just wobbling, I was
reeling, fresh off the revelation that I
had been assaulted 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 tofi nd some sense of equilibrium. One night
I found myself drawn to the water. Under
the light of a full moon, I waded into the
Pacifi c 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 fi nding
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 fi rst night in Los
Angeles, I fi nd myself drawn to the
Pacifi c at moments of great transition.
Last year, I wanted to fl ee the
anniversary of a yuletide breakup that
had marred the holidays. I booked a
fl ight to San Francisco and spentMeghan O’Dea is a writer, world traveller,
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.Christmas morning sitting on a piece
of driftwood at Ocean Beach,
watching the surfers patiently
bobbing on the small, ruffl ed 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 Pacifi c,
so I drove her out to Haystack Rock
one chilly, grey 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 Pacifi c,
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 fi nd my focus, my drishti, a
sense of continuity. There is stability
in the Pacifi c’s constant motion. There
is certainty in its immutable changes.
Of this I am certain: the same is true
of myself.