I often have women in my yoga class
complimenting me on my flexibility. The Miss Vanity in me lights up, while Miss
Humble waves frantically, telling the mind to not forget yoga is about
humility. I began my yoga practice a few years ago and have never felt happier.
The mat is the only spot I can exclusively claim to be my own. It is my place
to ponder, to look within, and to have a private dialogue.
Imagine if you could talk to your organs.
Imagine if they could tell you - could you please readjust that walk, that
standing pose, that lurch to the back when you dive down to pick an errant toy.
It would hurt less. The body preens before you, and like a tailor you make
adjustments.
You breathe more consciously. And in that
moment the breath leads you a micro inch more towards touching the shin with
your face, you realize the more you give the more you get.
Flexibility comes at its pace. It grabs the
cockles of your ego and makes you see reality. And then, after years of
frustrating efforts, it surprises you one sweaty day when your legs entwine to
form an eagle.
Every time I hear I am flexible, I think
about those days when my boobs and my girth suffocated me in shoulder stand.
Through tears, toil, sweat, broken nails and aching muscles, my body deigned to
sync with me. All I can say is I am grateful.
