You know how a certain cup of caffeine can provide just the right buzz?
It’s the same with yoga, though the feeling is different.
Sometimes, however, the right cup of tea or espresso can leave me edgy or angsty, wondering, “Maybe I need another?”
This is how it was yesterday after my Saturday morning time on the mat.
The discrepancy was further pronounced at breakfast, seated as I was, between my husband and our son, both of who received the effects that I had intended.
“It’s as if we’re all high,” Lloyd said, as we waited for our eggs after the morning class.
“Not me,” I countered. “I’m even crankier.”
I’ve practiced long enough to know that this is how it goes.
After the blush of my first few classes way back in 1994, something else began to emerge.
When I explained the tightness and irritability (and anger), my yoga teacher suggested someone who provided something called “bodywork.”
My healing journey began then or picked up speed. But alas, it wasn’t as I expected, ie. a journey with a beginning and an end.
“Healing” simply meant that I “met” myself in my body, as is, without abandoning it. Sometimes sweet, sometimes sour. Sometimes blissed, sometimes pissed.
“Damn yoga,” my younger sister says, and I feel that now, even if she was referring to the way yoga continues to maintain that eighth of an inch height in my favor, leaving her forever the shortest among our 8 siblings, while she continues to wait on the age differential of almost a decade to shrink me.
I keep thinking of the ocean. Of how nice it would be to spend Christmas beside it.
Maybe I could take the drive today to fulfill that urge.
But what explains it?
My boys just arrived home on Friday night, and today is the first day that everyone is free from work.
Plus leaving today would pile up the to-do list on Christmas Eve.
I woke often through the night, wondering if the boys had arrived back home from their late shifts and their stop at the tail end of my shorter sister’s Solstice Party, her 14th in a row.
Or maybe it was the Moon, already waning, but ever-bright above the snow.
Or it could be my Mother, celebrating her 76th Christmas birthday, these 19 years from the grave.
There’s a star in the East on Christmas morn…
Do you know that spiritual?
I meditated on that unfathomably bright star this morning, shimmering through the trees, thinking it a plane or a satellite.
And then I got up and fixed myself some tea. Without caffeine. And sipped it in the ocean of dark.