It’s been a little over three years now since I returned to a daily yoga practice. And I’ve only recently realized how radically my practice has changed. 26 minutes on the mat, 6 minutes on the cushion. 32 minutes a day, imperfectly in the moments.
While the (almost) daily effort has been intentional, this change hasn’t been. I wouldn’t have been able to direct myself toward this experience. Nor would it have been possible for anyone else to direct me. It’s the result of a synthesis of all that is changing, in all that I experience. It is deeply personal, and oddly impersonal.
Yesterday someone wrote on an Instagram post that she’d been criticized for not taking yoga seriously enough. She didn’t elaborate, and I’ve been trying to figure out what it means to not take something “seriously enough” – because I am beginning to think that is the whole point: to fall into the habit of taking everything lightly.
I inhale like the tide pulling away from the small pebbles on the shore, and I exhale like the flow of the tide teaming with new constellations of all that has been and all that will be.
The stars appear to be fixed in the darkness – an illusion of distance and tempo.
The world is a master of the sleight of hand:
every moment a misdirection every moment a seduction, and the deliciousness of our oh-so-willing dance – the suspension of doubt.
“Drama Queen” has taken on a new meaning for me lately. Like so many other judgments I’ve made about myself and about others – the tight, little frame is losing its integrity. I’m wondering it if isn’t in part due to the inundation of social media’s ridiculous stockade. We are the public at the zoo of our own design: gawking and pointing at human behavior, buttoning up our coats, clutching the frame of the baby stroller, peering into the glass enclosures, and offering up serious lessons in self-preservation.