We pay attention when something costs money. Or time. Or a plane ticket. Put a velvet rope around it and suddenly we’re reverent.
A friend went to Nashville and paid real dollars for a museum. Then came back to D.C. and realized the Smithsonian is basically sitting there, free, like it’s no big deal. Which is the point. What’s always available becomes background noise. We scroll past it. We “mean to.”
Mysore practice is like that. It’s not free-free, but it’s comparatively generous: steady, repeatable, there on your schedule. No once-a-year workshop sparkle. No scarcity. So the mind does what the mind does. It says, “I can go tomorrow.” And tomorrow becomes a lifestyle.
This year I got to work with more under-30 practitioners than I’ve seen in a while. One of them had practiced in New York, then Mumbai, then landed back in D.C. He pulled me aside one morning and made sure I actually looked at him when he said it: the commute itself mattered. His little sojourn. Part of his sadhana. Sunrise on a scooter over a rice field you know—except here it’s city streets and the same devotion.
I felt something similar walking through Hillwood, staring at Fabergé eggs I’ve always found tacky. Then one of them hit me in the face: oh, that’s why. Every now and then the real thing announces itself. Not because it’s expensive, but because it’s alive. The trick is noticing before you need a ticket to remind you.