I was in yoga the other day, minding my own business as usual. I get in and out of there, not make eye contact, trying not to feel awkward whilst putting my thumbs to my third eye and saying, “Namaste.” I’m a crunchy, leftie, granola hippie, but that doesn’t mean I want to hang out with folks like me, for crying out loud. We’re weird and far too prone to violating personal space.
yoga
I’m going to say something distinctly un-American here.
I don’t think we always have to do our best.
Now, before you ship me off to live with the French, let me explain.
Every pose is a puzzle.
Every puzzle has a solution. It’s just about putting the pieces together. Read more…
My thoughts have exploded into a million pieces and are floating flotsam above my head. I try to reach up and catch them and piece them back together, but they turn to dust on my fingertips. I let go and look up and they’ve formed back into broken bits of gravel, irritating my mind.
I arrive and sit on the mat, placed in my favorite spot where the sunlight filters through the window; and I begin to rein in my breath.
You see that beautiful tree-pose picture? Yeah, that’s not me. Not even close.
My downward facing dog is not so much downward as it is awkward.
Today, I was bent in half, or as bent-in-half as a woman with the mobility of an 88 year old can be, and my thighs were staring me right in the face. And not in a good way. “Acknowledge it, then let the thought walk right by you,” I reminded myself.
And then, during extended side angle pose, I fought the urge to angrily push my body into the correct position, to stretch it into submission, to make it beg for mercy. I had to channel my inner freak-out into something productive. Read more…