I don’t want to go to yoga today. I’m not practicing with my usual teachers or at my usual studio, but at a studio I have been to once and at a different location. I am sore and tight and alternatively dreading and ignoring my deadlines for work next week. I don’t feel great and am having some kind of reaction to pollen, or cats, or coffee, or a cold. I’m starving all the time, but eating less than two hours before yoga is a BAD idea for me. Unless it is a very specific kind of diabetic power bar, and then only 1/2.
And all of this is good and well, but beside the point. I’m going to yoga. I’ve committed to practicing yoga every day for thirty days. And half way through, the results are physically, emotionally and spiritually astonishing. Yes, I have become more than obnoxious with my yoga obsession and I truly appreciate all of my friends who laugh with me at myself about it. I have changed in ways I could not have anticipated.
More than anything, this is about honoring a commitment to myself. I have found that form of physical exercise that feels like “time for me” in a way that 45 minutes on the elliptical or 2 miles on the track or an hour dance class never has. Yoga is purely and intrinsically mine. Yet I get to share it with my closest friends (albeit one of them through email and facebook as she lives far, far away), make new friendships with some incredible people and spend time studying with a group of teachers, who, while varied in their temperaments and styles, are consistently gentle and demanding, bossy and kind, and always, always encouraging.
And I can do a headstand.
So I’m going to yoga. For at least another 15 days. And hopefully the rest of my life.