I sit before the computer and ask myself if perhaps I no
longer have anything to say. Perhaps it
is time to stop writing, or attempting to write.
Little thoughts pass through my mind that in some way are
connected to yoga if only because the thoughts or observations come during my
practice:
The beauty of lying on my yoga deck in the morning looking
up into the branches and leaves of the oak tree, remembering Robin Wall
Kimmerer, a Native American botanist who speaks of living in the Maple Nation
in New York state. Here, we live in the
Oak Nation.
Watching the four ravens who land one by one on the utility
pole nearby as I practice. They peck the
pole and preen and have a conversation with such a variety of sounds I wish I
could understand.
Watching the two quail families with what seems like twenty
babies between them feeding here and there.
What do they find to eat in this dry grass?
I remember funny and poignant moments in yoga class:
“My gluteus is at its maximus.”
“From downward facing dog, bring your hands into prayer
pose.”
“What does ‘Om, shanti, shanti, shanti’ mean anyway? For all I know we could be saying, ‘screw
you, screw you, screw you.’” (It means Om, peace, peace peace).
Someone crying through class because her dog just died and
she needed to be there, and some of us crying with her.
Someone crying though class because she came straight to
class from being with her friend as she died and all she could think was, “I
need to get to yoga.”
Sending people off to surgeries with hugs.
Sometimes I tire of words.
Sometimes I simply want to stay in the quiet that I think Patanjali must
be speaking of with the second yoga sutra: “Yoga is the stilling of the
fluctuations of the mind.” Sometimes there is nothing to say. Sometimes it is enough to watch the way the
light plays on the leaves or feel the breeze gentle against the skin.
Sometimes it is just enough to be.