So far this week I went to 3 yoga classes. 3 days in a row.
I'm sore. Aching in some spots. But, it's been the first time in the 3 months since I fell off my bike that my body is getting close to what it used to be able to do. My knee is still wonky - child's pose is still more uncomfortable than relaxing. My handle can only handle so many planks and then I'm done. And my shoulder still is unhappy twisting in certain ways. Having said that, I can move. Pain isn't present all the time. I'm having moments of getting lost in the moment. Moving. Grooving. Flowing.
And so, I've been thinking about what yoga means to me. It's been almost 6 years since I found my studio and quit the gym the next day, after years of countless reps and miles logged on the stairmaster. I didn't know that I was looking. I had no expectations of what yoga would do for me, how it would shape me, change me.
I wasn't looking for a path.
Or maybe I was.
This week, in every class, teachers talked about coming to the mat. Coming to the mat is a commitment. To me. To my body. To my mind. It's a place to make space. To put everything else aside, as much as is possible, and be present. To twist, to balance, to be challenged. To move, to be still, to laugh which I do in every class.
Some days I can let go. Most of the time I can't. At least that'd what I think when I'm there but the truth is I'm letting go by letting myself be there.