Really Seems Silly

For a variety of reasons, I haven’t been able to get to the studio of late, and so, for 5 of the last 6 days, I’ve had to practice yoga at home. Doing the Ashtanga series alone, in my bedroom, wearing my pajamas, really brings home to me how ridiculous of a pursuit it is.

I could be getting another hour or so of sleep or another few cups of coffee, but instead, I’m wrinkling myself into sometimes painful but almost always difficult body positions, doing my best to keep an even flow of breath, something I’d have no trouble doing were I still warmly ensconced under the covers.

I ask myself continually why I’m doing this and indeed part of it is simply habit; I’m used to starting my mornings out this way; I’m not sure what else I’d do, even if I did sleep later or drink my coffee.

Part of it is certainly fear: I’m afraid that if I stop practicing regularly, I’ll never be able to get back into it consistently. But if I really stopped, why worry about that?

Another aspect is curiosity: it’s always interesting to me to see what today’s practice will be like. How will it feel doing the forward bends? Will my knees ache in lotus? What will happen in headstand? Every morning’s series is a snapshot of where my body is that day and one that I find strangely compelling to observe.

David Williams said that for him, doing the practice is like harvesting maple syrup. Each pose is like another tree at which he harvests prana. I’m not so poetic; for me every asana is like cracking another knuckle, sometimes literally.

I like to imagine myself still practicing six days a week for the rest of my life; in Yoga Mala, Pattabhi Jois says that people over fifty can get away with just Sun Salutations and the finishing poses; that’s something to look forward to, too.