Over the holidays…or any holiday for that matter…there are a lot of yoga mats missing in action. Mine included I must say, although I always imagine that I will be there more because I intend on working just a little bit less.
While my regular class is not one of territorial mat conflict -- mats go wherever they may on any given day -- I noticed the missing thread of certain practitioners. As the holidays segued into getting back to work time...it became apparent which regulars had taken extended vacations. I heard myself whisper:
"I don't know your name...but I miss you"
Surprisingly, I longed for the return of personalities that made up the rituals of being in class.
I attend a Mysore class. Mysore is the practice of Ashtanga that is self-lead, following a set sequence of postures. It's like a dance routine of yoga postures. The practice period for the class is usually a two to three hour window, with instructor assistance, where yogis come and go as they please.
As a regular, I enter the room with a reserved sleepy smile, acknowledge nods here and there, and scoot along the energy trail to a place that feels right for my mat. Despite doing this several days a week for years, I don’t really know the names of many people in the class, nor do they know mine.
Yoga has been a nine year journey for me, and I look at the world differently as a result. I see lightness in certain people, and different colors in others. In tense situations, like when giving a speech where I'm sure I'm going to stumble while getting up on stage, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and go back to yoga practice in my mind. I think what some might think are crazy things...like the wind sometimes has a few words to say to us, and that the running water of a river has it's own language. I speak on a regular basis to my mom...who has passed...and I don't need to explain that to anybody.
When one particularly uplifting practitioner took a long vacation this past holiday I really missed him. I kinda know his name, but I'm not sure how to say it. He sashes in with bright colored pajama pants, and energy that burst to the sky. Sometimes he snores when resting. When he arises, there’s a joy in his steps as he bounces out of the room. There were others I missed…the petite gal who springs through the sequences like the speed of light…the ageless former yoga teacher who makes everything look to easy…the elegant dancer who makes the whole routine look like she's a surfer riding a wave…the beekeeper whose mind is racing around like a beehive. He's such warrior.
It then occurred to me that all the little cells inside me have a relationship, an intelligence and dialogue that follows a ritual. Yoga practice helps my own personal chemical concoction…my organs, cells, bloodstream and thoughts…communicate better with each other, and notice when something has changed or is missing.
Someday we may not even really have names for each other anymore. Perhaps we'll reach out through something like what the scientist call "strings" in string theory. We'll connect through the web highway they now think exist throughout the universe...and in which my belief that it does grows stronger everyday.
