I’ve been avoiding yoga for a while. I don’t think I really realized it; I just kept finding reasons not to go.
So I sat in class this morning, and it surprised me when the tears came so easily. I thought for the most part I was doing okay.
I remember those early days after loss, when I used to go to yoga just to cry. It was a safe, quiet space, and most people didn’t judge me. It was a release.
When I started to function more like a human, yoga became good exercise. It helped with my back pain. It centered me. I still cried sometimes, but usually with reason — my Amy Anne was getting sick; my boyfriend breaking up with me.
I’ve been happy these past two weeks. I’ve felt lighter, more at ease. My daughter brings me so much joy. I’m writing again. I’m emerging from my cave. But these things don’t happen easily.
I think that’s what I forgot. I’m still a new person. I’m still remembering, sometimes, how to breathe. And I’m still full of memories, and heartbreaking love.
I’m on vacation now, and the hotel offered gentle yoga in a cute little space. I woke up early anyway, so it seemed apropos. I’m getting back in my routine.
But I sat in sukhasana, and the tears wet my eyes, and I realized it’s been many, many weeks. And in yoga, I still feel safe. And I needed my tears. I need everything.
I finished the class. I moved in my body. I didn’t cry for long; though I’m thankful for release. And when it was over, I felt a bit lighter. And I laughed when the guy next to me muttered about “gentle” yoga not being so easy. I don’t think it’s meant to be. We do what we can.
