Here’s a confession: for the last six
months, 98 percent of my practice has been at home. For some reason I feel
guilty about this. Why? Perhaps because so many of you are
teachers. Perhaps because I love my own teachers and every class
I’ve ever had. Perhaps because I value learning.
I don’t know what’s happening.
Every morning at 3 or 4am, I wake up
and want to practice. That’s what I do. Then my day goes on, and
another week goes by with no class.
It began around the time of some huge
life changes in the fall: the end of a career, a health tilt-a-whirl
for my partner, a decision to move. I began to crave a grounding that
feels more effective at home than in a group.
There is a freedom at home to explore whatever area of resistance that presents itself that morning. My right hip, shoulders, neck. It feels like the best kind of
self-care to follow my body’s requests at my body’s pace.
The silence is heaven. Pajamas are
the epitome of comfort. The fire is gorgeous. Practice is as short or long as I choose. I suspect there is something healthy in becoming my own teacher.
In no way am I building a case for home
practice over classes. I’m sure I’m missing all kinds
of new input and all kinds of the specific and gentle guidance that I loved about class.
Home alone just happens to be the
point I’m at on my yoga path.
Have you been there? Have you gone
great chunks of time practicing at home? Did you miss class after a
while? I’d love to hear.
Thanks to yoga for being so social and
so solitary. Thanks for the mystery of all of this. And thanks to
you for the conversation,