These past few days, I’ve been on hiatus from yoga practice (twas a minor medical procedure requiring stitches). After three days of rest, (as usual), I’ve shifted from feelings of indulgence and relaxation, to feelings of blech, self-blame, and despair. I am sluggish, restless, out of tune.
Sometimes I joke (with myself) that I have the yoga practice of a crazy person, the truth is, it keeps me right. It orders my days, gives them a before, during, and after. It generates a modest purpose. Even if I do nothing else, I’ve done that. It makes me feel physically exercised, alive and expanding. Ready in motion, receptive to senses. In a living situation that’s somewhat cramped, my practice is where I can find freedom. It creates a place for interior things, thoughts, daydreams, connections, ruminations, to follow their logics through to a surface. To demand from myself, observe myself, accept myself, not least in my reactions to pain, fear, disappointment. To listen and follow. To establish and re-establish trust. To practice good self-relation.
In a few days I’ll start again, unroll my mat and take an inquiring breath. Are you still there? It waits for me. Maybe on Sunday. Watch it heal itself, the practice, and these off days will fade into a broader motion, (a promise I believe), (a promise in which I build belief).