Asana

It occurred to me this morning, as I wrapped my sweaty right arm around my sweaty right knee, then brought my sweaty left arm behind my very sweaty back to clasp hands and breathe, that it's now more than twelve years I've been doing this nearly every day of the week except for Sundays and twice a month, on the new and full moon days. That means I've probably done this pose-marichyasana B-about three thousand times. And while you'd think I'd be better at it after all these years, it is sort of remarkable to tally up all the effort and expense I've devoted to this almost daily endeavor of contorting my body into some five dozen different poses, which, in addition to being only one of the eight limbs of the fully-fledged yoga practice, is probably just another kind of calisthenics, albeit one that looks and sounds cooler than Jack LaLanne throwing a medicine ball around.

Am I a better person for all this twisting and turning? Probably not, but I do think the physical practice has contributed to my general level of health, and so, what I'm banking on is that, in the long run, doing yoga will help me live a bit longer, the hoped-for result of which will be, I'll have enough time in my life to figure a few more things out before I die-like, of course, whether it really makes any difference to my growth and development as a human being to practice yoga so diligently.

Of course, the vast majority of the time I've spent undertaking the physical practice has been in the morning; I've set my alarm clock hundreds of times in order to rise from bed, more or less groggy and toddle off to a place where I can set down my mat and begin the first sun salutation; so even if it doesn't make a difference, all I'd be doing otherwise, anyway, is sleeping.