How utterly extravagant..
How dare I do this.
I can’t afford this.
To do yoga? Seriously.
Should be buying food for dinner.
Should be home sorting laundry.
She be working on The writing.
Should be able to lift…foot…a…little…higher…and…twist…just…a…touch…deeper…
Should be breathing deeper.
Should just shut up already.
And than an exhale in competition with a lion after a bloody, satisfying feed, and it was all gone. My body limply melting into nothingness. For a moment.
Those mountains, those pesky words, those seemingly judgmental mind-fucks that try to interupt my body stretching forgotten corners and tacky tissues and lubricating dried up joints and free up blocked meridans, how often I want them gone for good. But really, in my practice today, I honored them. They are mere mountains to climb, each emotional snag is a place to stop and check out the ethereal scenery: the where, why, what, who and how. And then I can choose. Keep it or release it.
And as I was twisting in Bound Triangle, deciding if I wanted to go deeper, lingering in my comfort zone, contemplating floating around there because, well, it’s comfortable and there wasn’t a lot going on, I could space out on the easiness of it all. And right when I thought it was safe my teacher says, go on, go deeper if you need to, if you need to feel more. All we’re looking for is something to feel, right? We all just want to feel.
What she didn’t say was feel good. Or on the flip, feel bad. She just said feel. And it hit me, I’m not on the mat for any other reason but to feel the yoga to then feel what it’s like afterward and to even feel what’s it’s like not to practice month after month, to feel a body that is compressed and a spine that has shrunk and breath that is shallow.
I suppose this is why for all those months when any normal individual was experiencing post partum episodes like I was they would have gotten some pharmaceutical help and yet I refused. I wanted to feel it. Every last bit of it, I wanted to feel it until I didn’t need to feel it anymore. Time does seem to heal and specific blessings entering my life (new people, new practices, the owl that swooped down and pretended it was going to fly directly into my windshield late that once night but instead, like magic, lifted up past the roof of my car) can slowly change a course, physiological and otherwise. But to deny the feelings to emerge and live not just inside me, but as me, would be doing my self a great injustice. At least that seems to make sense.
And as I type this now I remember a question someone asked me a while back when I mentioned I was going to start attending Sweat Lodges. Why on earth would you want to be trapped in a pitch black little hut with a pile of volcanic rocks hot smoldering inches away from you?
I dunno. I just want to see what it feels like.
And for many years I heard the question why on earth would you want to give birth without pain meds?
And the same thought would pop in my mind. Not that it’s better for the baby or that drugs just ask for more intervention. No, none of that. I wasn just thinking no way in hell am I going to miss out on feeling that happen to me.
And as I type this, I am trying to feel this day. All alone and swamped with writing to do and grocery shopping and a dinner to prepared for friends and nettle to be harvested before the dinner because it’s going in the dinner. I am feeling lonely for the friend up north and the friend down south. I am feeling annoyed with the media. I am feeling hungry and tired, but that’s nothing new.
And so it’s been my practice the past few mornings to ask myself that question as soon as my eyes open to the (finally!) bright sunshine through my window while I lay in bed. How do I feel today? And then I go from there. And then I extend it on to the girls and I honor what they have to say. I am getting that feelings are like our own inner-journalist, telling us the news about where we are and what we may need.