I’m heading out to Carmel By the Sea for a sure-to-be-amazing wedding, and it comes to mind that I’m not the best at packing. I bring a lot of one thing (this time: striped sweaters) but then completely neglect another (who knows what it will be this time!).
But there is one thing I always pack – my yoga mat. I have one old, beat up mat with dog-chewed corners that I always fold and lay on top of everything in my carry-on bag. I brought it to Hawaii and was so grateful to roll it out every morning.
I won’t say I ALWAYS use it. But it’s a good reminder for me that yoga doesn’t exist just in a studio somewhere. I can practice anywhere – even without a mat.
Do you bring your yoga with you?
Sore. Tired and energized.
Yesterday I worked as an assistant with my former teacher training program. And in the afternoon, we did a little downdog workshop. I still haven’t quite figured out why, but I always go deeper when I’m in a room with our teacher. My breath is deeper, my focus deeper. My body just opens up.
After working with him for a couple of years, I’m finally convinced he has the thing. You know, that guru gaze thing. That POW energy. I didn’t really believe in it. But even though it was my body in the posture, it was beyond my energy. For whatever reason, his presence helps me key in to my own energy and whooosh.
I’m not saying the guy is magic. I’ve read about yogic powers – regulating internal organ function, levitation, transferring enlightenment through a touch or even a look – and I’m not buying it. Despite my West Coast hippy tendencies, I’m a cynical New Yorker at heart.
That said, there’s no denying I felt it. The channels opening up. The right-alignment rush. It was me, the posture, the energy. Whatever it was, boy, it was good.
And, now, I’m exhausted and uplifted at the same time. I have that fevered soreness and the wealth of benefits from practice. And I want more.