Coming home

I had a day the other day where I was feeling, well strange. I was anxious, agitated, restless for no apparent reason. I could just feel the resistance within me arise. Nothing in particular had happened, I wasn’t plagued by consuming thoughts that triggered it, I just felt weird. Nothing special had happened, it was a day like any other, but yet I felt the agitation, my skin crawled with it. I tried all the usual distractions, internet – nope, reading – definitely not, listening to music – excruciating. The undeniable restlessness sat there, refusing to budge. Almost taunting me to find something to hide it, mask it and shove me back into ignorant bliss. So I decided to roll out the mat, the familiar territory of my yoga mat. The friend that has been with me the entire trip (although I did upgrade in NYC) but the constant in my back pack. The grains of sand from Goa are still embedded, the stains of tears from holding a hip opener, the secrets my mat holds are endless.

Since travelling I have attempted to maintain some kind of routine and regular practice. I must admit my idea of “practice” has shifted from the need to do a 90minute sweat pouring session in the yoga studio to some simple stretches in order to prepare my body for what I now truly savour, the sitting in meditation. My practice has moved from hours on the mat to a more gentle and subtle sitting with my breath, stilling the mind, allowing my thoughts to come and go. My mat is still home to my practice, but it is of a different kind. Some days child’s pose is all I can muster before I take my seat, other days I might stretch it out and go with my body to the places it knows it needs to. Nothing strenuous, nothing fancy, I am not rocking out handstand or even some crazy arm balance, but a gentle and slow movement to the places of my body that cry out for attention. Today I can feel the resistance in my entire body, I breathe, I take my breath to the ache in my calves from the 200 steps I climb each day, I take my breath to my hips that are screaming at me from hanging onto my emotions. My breath takes me to the back of my heart where a simple cobra is almost excruciating. Slowly but surely, my body starts to move, my breath taking it to where it needs to go. My mediation has already begun as I focus on the slow rhythm of my breath.  I am coming home, coming home through my body, through my breath to me. To meet myself. To find the space not only in my body but more importantly in my mind.

I sit with my breath. I sit with my mind. I am home.