For the foreseeable future (one week? three weeks?), I’ve got all the time in the world. I’m celebrating the end of one career by spending time with the dog (my lovely man is working) at our cabin on an island in Northern Ontario. That means no electricity, no running water, and no watch. All of which means heaven.
One of the purposes of this Great Adventure is to do as much yoga and meditation as I’d like, without having to squeeze it in between meetings, phone calls, and … well, 30 other time wasters I have perfected.
Just me, the dog, a wood stove, and a mat.
Today is day five. So far, I figure I’m doing an hour of yoga each day, and about three hours of meditation. These are, of course, approximations based on having no watch and absolutely no familiarity with where the sun is supposed to be at any hour of the day. I’m guessing, is what I’m saying, but I do know my regular home practice, and this feels about the same. (The meditation just feels like forever, at each sitting.)
Between hauling huge pails of water from the lake to the cabin, and learning to chop endless bits of kindling (at the risk of sounding melodramatic, these are the essentials of survival here), yoga has become an extraordinary luxury for the first time. Not a discipline, not something I’m trying to do more of. That yoga hour, followed by a freeze-my-face-off dip in the lake, is my visit to a spa each day. Absolutely unnecessary for my physical survival, absolutely essential for my well-being.
It makes me wonder. Is yoga your discipline? Your pleasure? Your creativity? Your hard work? Your prayer? Your relaxation? Your hobby? Your reason for being? Your luxury? How much yoga would you do if you had all the time in the world?
Thanks for the rare opportunity to have free time. Thanks to yoga for its luxuriousness, and thanks to you for the conversation,