I'm used to posting on a blog I keep with my sister (The Yogery), so it's still a little scary and awkward to post things here on the garden, where I feel like I know everyone! There is much less anonymity. But here goes. It's always better to be yourself, right?
Dear Yoga,
Without you I am so stiff and unfeeling and just SOLID in mind and body. As soon as I practice just a little bit I feel so much more open and able to go with the flow. Things seem funnier. Other things seem sadder. Everything is more infused with beauty. My concerns start to melt.
I would like to understand why you chose me. I was, after all, an unlikely candidate. But you spoke to me when I was a high school girl in Iowa, through a book that I can no longer find. I remember a picture of someone in Cobra pose. Am I just making that up now? I remember mimicking it on the wood floor of the "great room" in the house I grew up in and have never been back to. I remember teaching it to my Junior Varsity tennis team and everyone being amazed at that new feeling of openness in the chest and belly.
Then you and I drifted apart. I left for college in Santa Fe, New Mexico. My first yoga class wasn't very exciting. I was just there for a boy. And then that boy got more into meditating than yoga, and I followed, the puppy-in-love that I was. He left, and then I remembered you again. Or rather, a friend dragged me to see you at the Bikram Studio in Santa Fe. There, I remember the dirty brown carpet, the mirrors, the sweaty room. The baggy, crimson Harvard t-shirt I wore. The teacher exhorted us to "Push your hips forward to the wall! More! More!" in Camel Pose. And I pushed, thrilled at the daring feeling of the pose and the teacher's passion. We were back in love then, yoga.
But the world is a dangerous place for love, and we drifted apart yet again. I couldn't overcome the financial obstacles to get to you. And Zen, which was free, took your place for a while. I sat in stillness wearing all black and trying not to cough in dark rooms. I meditated as I polished wood, as I scooped peanut butter into my oats, as I kissed that boy, who came back to me, for a time, trading places with you. I studied and found meaning in everything but you. I didn't need you, I thought. I had The Odyssey, the Pythagorean theorem, Sophocles, and Chomsky and Annie Dillard when I needed to escape the Greats (which was more often than not). You, yoga, I resisted, ignored, saw through, as I sometimes do with those who I should really love and let in to my life. That is how our story begins, dear yoga.
With love,
Ashley
Ashley. You are one of my most favorite writters. Thank you. xok