Understanding

 I cannot stop laughing.

Not because life is light—

but because I finally see it clearly.

I walk into rooms they call meetings,

but to me they are classes.

Lessons in human behavior.

Lessons in contradiction.

Lessons in compassion.

They ask who can sponsor whom,

and I sit quietly, listening with my body.

How can someone guide another

when their own breath is heavy,

their body exhausted,

their nervous system still begging for substitutes?

I’m not angry.

I’m not judging.

I’m observing.

I’ve learned that regulation doesn’t come from stories.

Stories can comfort,

but they cannot steady the spine,

cannot calm the breath,

cannot teach the body how to live without craving.

My recovery has no drama left.

No performance.

No rehearsed pain.

So the rooms don’t know what to do with me.

When I say I sleep in the park,

that I meditate,

that I move my body,

the room goes quiet.

Not with rejection—

but with confusion.

I see it now.

Everyone is welcome,

as long as you speak the same language of suffering.

As long as your healing looks familiar.

As long as you keep the story alive.

I don’t blame them.

I was once confused that way too.

So sometimes I choose solitude,

not to isolate,

but to protect my nervous system.

To stay honest.

To stay regulated.

And somehow, in this simplicity,

life has become hilarious.

I try to be friends with everyone,

but the moment I say bench, park, no relapse—

the connection disappears.

Yet if someone says they drank yesterday,

arms open, numbers exchanged, belonging restored.

I see it.

And I laugh.

Then a dog walks by.

A dog doesn’t care where I sleep.

A dog doesn’t ask my story.

A dog feels my presence

and offers me a hug without conditions.

And I accept it.

Fully.

I used to think I didn’t like dogs.

I see now it was ignorance.

Animals know regulation.

They know truth.

They know who needs a hug.

Lately, I wish I could afford a dog.

Not for loneliness—

but for companionship without performance.

I sit with books now,

reading slowly, consciously.

I read about “world religions,”

yet I hear only one voice elevated,

one system centered,

others filtered through permission.

I notice what is missing.

No talk of breath.

No talk of the body.

No talk of regulation.

Then I read about beer.

Drugs.

Experimentation.

And something in me turns off.

How can a mind altered by substances

claim authority over spirit?

How can someone numbing themselves

teach clarity?

I think of my grandmother.

No books.

No grants.

No credentials.

Just truth.

“Don’t drink,” she said.

“It will disturb you.”

She was right.

I spent years listening elsewhere,

believing accents meant wisdom,

believing power lived in Europe,

in England,

in approval.

I bowed without knowing I was bowing.

I mistook obedience for faith.

Now that spell is gone.

Not with anger—

with laughter.

I see the comedy of it all.

The American dream.

The timelines.

The expectations.

The lie that life only counts

if it looks a certain way.

Here I am in my fifties,

sleeping on a bench,

watching the sun rise,

feeling more alive than ever.

I lost roles.

I lost illusions.

I lost borrowed identities.

And what remained was me.

My body teaching me how to breathe again.

My back releasing when I let go.

My nervous system finding peace in simplicity.

I don’t need fixing.

I don’t need saving.

I don’t need permission.

I don’t even need answers right now.

I just need to keep listening—

to the body,

to the breath,

to the quiet truth that never left me.

Higher self, thank you for waiting.

Thank you for the patience.

Thank you for the laughter.

Another beautiful day.

— Yoruba Yogi