Gifts to the Soul

This morning I went to yoga class, sat on my mat, and started to cry.

My teacher sat on her mat and began to talk. The tears streamed down my face.

"Just be where you are," she said. "Don't judge it. Just be here."

And I did. Breathing was hard. I felt a bit self-conscious. My first downward facing dog was impossible. I could not hold myself. I had to come out of the pose and sink into child's pose. I was barely breathing. 

"If you haven't been feeling supported this week, use a lot of props today and let yourself be supported," she said.

And I did. I learned that lesson long ago, but the reminder was a beautiful thing. 

The balance poses were impossible. I kept falling out of them. Literally. I wanted to give up. I didn't. I moved through it. I don't think there was a single asana that I did well, except maybe warrior II. Oh, and trikonasana. I did my very first perfect trikonasana. That pose has always been one I did not even attempt to complete, understanding that that is not one I do well, or think that I can do, But here I was, failing at everything and yet doing what I could never do nearly perfectly.

My teacher hugged me at the end of practice and said, simply, "I'll be sending you love today." 

Love. The perfect ending to a surprising practice. 

On the drive home I looked up into the sky and recognized the signs. An achingly beautiful day. Every sense came alive. I pulled the car over and spent some time looking at the sky. It was soul medicine. 

The Great Summer Writing Retreat of 2019 continues. One hundred days of writing unedited ideas and following a prompt to its sometimes illogical conclusion.