I love alone time. But for 5 hours in an airport feels like I’m being held hostage. Trying to make lemons out of lemonade, I think about all the things I’d be able to do: walk and listen to an audiobook, peruse books, read, write, drink too much coffee.

I start my adventure by buying an I Love NY sticker for my daughter, who does, in fact, love NY, and spraying myself with some tester perfume. I’m starting with 2 wins, as I’m not great at bringing souvenirs home, and I often fear being stinky next to my seatmates.  Next, I head toward the bathroom before I hunker down in some corner of the airport with actually working outlets to keep my electronics at a high battery to quell my travel neurosis of needing a full charge just in case there is a natural disaster in which we lose power.

In the hall to the bathroom, there are a few specialty rooms that can only be found in heavy-traffic airports. One was a meditation room.  Seeing that I am having a year of trying to spend more time in my body and less in my head, and I have ample hours to kill, I think to go in there are do some yoga.  The glass door cues me in that there is no one in the room, and even though every passerby will be able to watch me, I will be fine and can face the wall. Quietly entering the room, I see that I am, in fact, not alone.  There is a young airport worker in the corner just beside the door, scrolling on his phone. No doubt on a break or hiding from his boss. I play it cool and still head to claim a spot on the floor, now hear that there is light Musak piping in. I situate myself, getting ready to do a sun salutation flow. 

There is a problem; he is sitting directly in front of me in this narrow room, in the spot a teacher would typically sit.  Trying to ignore him, I try to figure out which way to face.  Facing him seems like I am anticipating his teaching, and facing away puts a lot of butt toward his face in downward-dog position.  I proceed to face him. This year of trying to get out of my head certainly puts me in circumstances that seem divinely designed to challenge me. I’m 5 minutes into my groove and all is well.  Then the door creaks open again.  Another worker comes in. As I am in cobra, she asks the other guy, with whom she’s clearly met up with in here before, if she can take a seat beside him.  Now I have 2 fake teachers sitting in front of me.

I have just come from a weekend with Elizabeth Gilbert, the author of Eat, Pray, Love and also Big Magic, in upstate New York at the Omega Institute. Felling like an adult summer camp replete with cabins and shared bathrooms, 500 of us seekers piled into the main hall to be inspired and talk about our fears, our bravery, and our dreams in a workshop called Magical Freedom. Somehow, this little mediation room now seems to encompass all of the teachings.

But turns out, the woman who arrives in the meditation room in the hallway on the way to the bathroom, as I have now named it, was there to pray.  She closed her eyes and muttered to herself while bowing.  She was in her flow. What I began to think as I was trying not to think was what a motley crew we were. The 3 of us with the most disparate intentions, bound together by this room and this moment. As Rob Bell writes, everything is spiritual. The 3 of us in this space filled with fluorescent lights, meditation blankets, and the soft sounds of Kenny G, each seeking peace in our own way.