Things have been quiet here. Peaceful, even.
But in my life, things have been the opposite. Every path seems long and arduous, terrifying even. Yet early in the mornings, when I wake to a world full of darkness and heaviness, there is a solace, there is a lightness. There is a friend to whom I don’t speak a word, who offers support and protection. And throughout the day, even when I leave it, it’s with me, guiding, nurturing, accepting.
It is yoga, and I am it.
There was a time, not too long ago, when I would open my mouth and out would come “yoga.” You could tell me about your new kitchen sink, and I would lead the conversation to ashtanga, somehow. My husband used to mimic me in a singsong voice, “yogayogayoga yoga yoga.” Now, he says, I hardly ever mention it.
The need to talk about it is gone. The need to internalize it is much stronger now, to let it seep inside me. It is on my mat, but also everywhere else. It is the ground I stand on, my base, my foundation. It is in the smile of a stranger that shakes me from my sadness. It is in the leaves of a tree that rustle above me. It is in my heart, even as it breaks and mends.
Asana has been difficult lately. Stress brings on nausea and pain in the mornings. I sit on my mat and meditate on the pain, the stress, imagine the ball of churning fire and ocean waves that is my stomach stilling and quieting. After time passes (how many minutes? sometimes 10, sometimes an hour), I stand and gingerly begin suryanamaskara. And sometimes I continue through standing poses, through seated, all the way through finishing. And sometimes I can’t. Intention is not always enough, it seems.
And even through this irregular practice as of late, small physical breakthroughs manifest. Breakthroughs that, no doubt, are inexplicably linked to life’s breakthroughs. Jumping into bhujapidasana from down dog without touching down yesterday… with a new found lightness. A sense of freedom. Flight.