For many years, my yoga practice felt like running through the mud.
After that first class, where I had the felt sense of being in my body, it became, to put it mildly, a slog. Every time I practiced, I would find myself angry for no reason, or crying, or experiencing a barrage of dark thoughts that would plunge me into depressive states for days, if not weeks. It would have been far easier to quit and write yoga out of my life.
I knew what was happening was necessary.
"I feel so drawn to yoga. I can't explain it, really...."
These words spill out, like a secret told for the first time, from many of my clients and friends. They may have a regular practice, or they've experienced yoga in a class once or twice, or maybe they've never done it before. But the longing and desire is there, drawing their eye and nudging their heart to.... something. But what?
The rich experience of being in the body is calling.
I didn't have adequate words to describe...
My Mother is self-destructing.
As dramatic as that sounds, it's true. Just a fact of life. She's been in four rehab centers this last year and hasn't maintained more than 2 months of consecutive sobriety to my knowledge.
This is an old, painful story for me and my family. Part of me would like very much to march on like a good little soldier and say that it's okay -- that we know, as adults, we can't do anything but pray. That the people we love have their own paths...
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