78 degrees, early October in Texas. Heaven
is a margarita and bar porch away. Lazy
Sunday, and I have not been to yoga in three days.
My body knows it. But, says Netflix.
But nothing, says my yoga mat, sitting poised
in the corner, always more ready than I am.
On the rock station, Prince sings about partying till
it’s 1999 and the bass beat of the music fest
wafts in through my open car door window.
I arrive all knot and fuss, jam my gear shift
into park. Inside, I take off my shoes, make myself
sigh a deliberate sigh. I unroll my mat
on the hard floor ritual-like. Already, the world
lulls, becomes delicate as the sound
of butterfly wings. I turn off my phone—the only time
it is off—and offer every flawed cell I have,
every decaying bone, every flesh inch of me
to the mat, to the studio, to the words
of the teacher, to the universe. The mat is resolute
about its place in the world of flux
and crash and rocket. I envy its razor focus. I accordion
my lungs in and out, over and over. I stretch
and flex muscles and organs. I raise my heart. I center myself,
anchor myself through the big toe. I lean
into the resistance. I lean into anything and everything
uncomfortable. I do everything wrong
before it becomes right. I drip my pain down my face,
my arms, my stomach onto the mat, who steadies me,
saying, Yes. Wreck yourself upon me completely
so that I may piece you together again.
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Editor: Travis May
Photo: Amber Strocel/Flickr
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