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.