When it rains, let it

wisdom, via the game of telephone

“This week in yoga…” starts so many of my journal entries, but rarely a latte. I like to keep these fresh and maybe bait them with a hook? But not today, kittens. Today my only hook is that great wisdom and epic inner turmoil often originate in the practice of yoga.

Oh, you too?

I’m very gently dipping my sweet body back into the practice of mildly heated and not terribly vigorous yoga asana, as it feels important to me that I not become permanently affixed to my couch or my fireplace, which are the two places in my home where I like to plant myself. Rather than the ‘level two’ class my ego pined for, I elected the ‘level one,’ rolled out my mat in the back row, and built a wall of cork blocks at the front edge.

My mat has seen some things. I bought it in 2014 before heading to the Sivananda Ashram for two months of what was promised to be beach-front yoga. The brochures and website highlight a particular yoga platform that is just above the cerulean blue waves and perfectly combed sand, and so I selected a deep purple/red rather than black, lest the sun make it too hot, but also not so light as sandy footprints would be so visible. The yoga and platform are as described, but the weather forecast in December and January frequently includes the term ‘gale,’ describing particularly vigorous and angry winds.

Yoga in all my layers