My sister called this morning, on the
tail end of a four-day premenstrual funk. During said funk, she
forgoes dinner for chocolate bars and Skittles, which she calls bags
of pretty-colored death. She wears sweat pants, a hoodie, and fat
socks to bed, and bed is where she prefers to be when the rest of the world is doing its best to irritate her. During the funk she hates her body, her thoughts, her
feelings, her work, and her relationships, which doesn’t leave
much. Except for yoga.
She still goes to Mysore five days a
week. Her practice is not lighthearted bliss (“I wish they’d
keep their &%$#ing hands off me,” she says about her teachers’
corrections), but she goes.
It’s one thing to love yoga when
you’re up, when you’re hopeful, confident, self-assured, and
giddy with life’s possibilities. It’s another thing to love yoga when
you’re greasy-haired, crampy, and on the down side of a sugar
What a gift to love something healthy
when you’re feeling anything but.
When I began my practice, particularly
my home practice, yoga was for confident days only. I think I have
crossed the same fence that my sister describes. I adore yoga on the
effortlessly happy days, and yoga has become solace on my blechhhh
I’d love to hear which side of that
fence you’re on.
Thanks to yoga for being profoundly
comforting when it matters, and thanks to you for the conversation,