On Wednesday nights we practice in the heat, not really hot, 78 degrees, for 90 minutes with a little yoga nidra at the end. It’s delicious to be in the company of such ferociously dedicated people. We breathe and move and flow and laugh and uphold and support one another through all of the resistance; earnestly attempting to yoke mind body and spirit.
For me it’s as close to church as I get these days; entering safe and sacred space and gathering with other like-minded yogis to keep the dragons at bay. To grow and expand and soften, and create the kind of inner awareness that informs an awakening to the essence of who I am is beautiful and tender and sometimes even weepy. I’m amazed at the audacity of my life, how much wonder there can be in the every day, the simple gift of hanging out and doing what I love with others who are also loving it.
I’ve had some sadness this week as I begin to unravel from the latest round of lives lost, each successive death building upon itself, the ache of living without sometimes unbearable, often times incomprehensible, flaming out to incandescence. Yoga helps, especially the breath. And being loved by others, unconditionally. I call, leave a message, she calls back. I share, she listens. It’s breathing, softening, noticing, watching and allowing at its best. And it’s all interconnected, building upon itself in some kind of whirling dervishness. I fill the space that surrounds me, lying on my mat, illuminated, alive and sweaty, I am complete.