I come back to yoga the way a homing pigeon turns its wings back to roost – without thinking and full of trust. For days my body’s been holding the kind of tension that makes it hurt to sit at my desk, to wash the dishes, to sleep. So I turn off the lights and open my window. Unroll my mat like a pink banner of surrender. It’s been too long. I am here again.
And then I move. Child’s pose, my face close to the mat, breathing in the smell of rubber. Up dog, my face in the sunlight, the breeze floating in to cool my skin. Down dog, hands rooted. Half moon, my fingers pointed to the sky.
As I go it gets easier to find the right moment, the one where I settle into my bones and my body holds still. Here are the birds, calling out my window. Here is the truck rolling slowly down the street.
Afterwards, I am still tired, still a little sick. But it’s easier to be here, to be present. At night, on the floor of my daughter’s bedroom, she fits together pieces of a wooden train track. I sit with her and we build together quietly. Push the trains forward till we’re picking up steam.