Practice

For the better part of the last year I’ve felt mostly frozen when it comes to a lot in life. Too scared to do so many things, for valid reasons and for irrational ones too.

Did Covid pose a risk to my ability to practice yoga or write? Not directly, no. But the pandemic did make me feel like I was holding my breath, waiting for the worst, hoping and praying for this all to end.

I had a few moments where I felt able to exhale: At the beach, staring at the ocean, willed by the waves and the pull of the moon to breath deeply again. On the mat after my first group yoga class in six months, laying in the grass outside, staring up through the live oak trees, instead of closing my eyes in resting pose.

Yoga - we call it a practice. We practice together. We practice alone. But we practice. We work where we’re at. We let go of those things which do not serve us. But in the pandemic, in my fear, I didn’t let go. I held my breath and stopped my practice. I stopped writing, only taking the time to put my thoughts on paper when inspiration struck and the words flowed easily. But that’s why writing is a practice too. The words don’t always just pour out. Especially when you feel so frozen by what’s happening in life.

So as life ever so slowly creeps back to something that resembles what I used to think of as “normal,” it’s time to return to my practice. In yoga and in writing and in life. This is a small start.

Namaste.