Nothing to Crow About
I started practicing yoga thirteen years ago. Single woman. Pressure-cooker job. Considered a success in my early thirties. In my small town, I was a man-repelling machine. To ease the pressure (or, perhaps, to punish myself), I took structured classes and supplemented by twisting myself into pretzels on a rug in my bedroom most nights of the week.
When I met MTM, my yoga zen went bye-bye.
I had something to do every night. Places to be. Things to eat. And eat. And EAT.
Life is a mystery. Our choices are often bizarre. (Okay, my choices. MY CHOICES.) That must explain why, at 44, after a twelve year hiatus from yoga, I joined a place called Charleston Power Yoga. The sweaty brand of practice, in a room heated to some degree of Hell.
The instructors are all Tsarinas of Yoga. Seriously. They laugh at me when I stop at my 100th push up because sweat ran into my eyes and endangered my contact lenses. I’ve had floating contact catastrophes. Several times.
That’s my story………..
Sometimes, I think the whole point of life is to show us how much we don’t know. What we still need to learn. Where we’re weak.
Maybe that’s the yoga talking.
But, I can’t help but feel like I’ve lived half my life and have nothing to crow about. It’s silly. It doesn’t matter. BUT IT’S THERE. A glaring mid-life cliche, staring back at me in the mirror.
This week will be about breathing through life’s burn. The buckets of perspiration. Even the pain of falling. Of failing. Because we all remember a time we failed. And, usually, life compensates that effort with a reward.
I still believe that.