Barb and Kristyn are sisters; mid-60’s, retired, not very flexible on the outside, mushy fabulousness on the inside; ferocious, quiet, committed, Minnesota to the core. I love them, a lot. They showed up in September, yoga mats in tow, picking their spot, trusting, in spite of their more cautious nature, unsure yet resolute.
We practice in a space I have affectionately labeled the bowels. It shakes from the bottom up, clanks in warm weather and cold, sweats along the walls and is lit by twinkly Christmas lights. Yoga has never been more glamorously represented. Stripped bare, I am invited twice a week at 8:30 am for an hour to facilitate the yoking of mind, body and spirit. It’s divinely delicious, decadent, authentic stuff.
Barb and Kristyn never fail to surprise me, and more importantly themselves. As they unraveled, Barb through the top of the body, Kristyn through the bottom, it was their consistent courage to show up and do and be in the moment that beckoned them forward. As breath manifested space, and spaciousness made room for awareness, Barb and Kristyn moved closer and closer and closer toward an optimum expression of their true selves.
And now it’s March 1, and they have never missed a class; snow, ice, the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, unshakeable, unflappable, happy. I have learned so much from them about just hanging in there; trusting, believing before I see, breaking myself wide-open, expressing often that I clearly do not understand. We hugged today because they both held L pose, unassisted, energetically flowing, completely connected to their pelvic cores, hearts borne wide-open. So wonderfully brave, vulnerable, free.
“See you Thursday,” I say, as they hustle through the door.
“Thanks for being here,” they echo back.
We all smile.