Since November, through sickness and health, solitude and celebration my yoga practice has been unwavering. But this week may be the one to break my resolve.
See yoga connects me. My body, my feelings, my view of the word all become one. Yoga in fact mean “union.”
My breath and movement can explore a tightness that is physical and spiritual. It can consider and loosen without force. The opening is more than a stretch. It’s an opening to new perspectives, new ideas and new opportunities.
There’s yoga for every state of being. When ill, it can be soothing stretches and coordinated breath. Meditation in movement. On other days, it can activate my body. Bathe my cells with renewed vitality.
So, why am I finding many little ways to try and undermine my practice?
Because yoga isn’t selective. It connects to our joy; it connects us to our sorrow.
Right now, I don’t want to be connected. I want the numbness of distracted living. Winter is rough on someone dear to me. I wear myself out caring and caregiving. And there is a heartfelt sorrow as I see his struggles and hope for continued healing.
So I’m working around the edges of lapsing. Moving my practice to the last moments of the day just before sleep takes over. Reducing the chance I will connect deeply.
The opportunity to feel even this deeply is before me.