Today I jumped out of bed — well, not really jumped, more like rolled and crawled — and drank a quick cup of coffee in the bathtub, then aimed myself toward yoga class, telling myself, “no more excuses, just go.” So I went.
I love yoga, but between the recent travels, little enticements at home, addictive work and here-and-there-ness of my life, I’ve managed to miss going to a class for two weeks, which is not my life plan right now. Okay, so I did get a bunch of stuff done, but then again, I find it much easier to write for hours at this little computer than to turn myself upside down in downward dog even though I know how much I need the dog.
Bending and stretching, reaching and dropping, feeling the stretch in my legs and also the wobbly tiredness through my limbs, I felt good. I knew I was doing what I needed to do not just for my body, but for this mind that will keep spinning out movies and sit-coms of its own for hours, left to its own devices. Lying in the dark in corpse pose at the end, I felt like I had come home for the first time in weeks. “Stay,” I told myself. Then do it all over again.