The Room

This is the room where I can breathe. Most of all ~ where I can exhale. It is a room that invites the peeling of the onion. The unlearning. The undoing.

And, therefore, also the becoming.

There are no foot sounds as people pad in because there are no shoes with soil from the street or the filth of other times. Only the sound of sticky mats unfurling. They, too, struggle to let go of themselves and are heavy as they ground to the floor. Mine must always be tidy and perfectly aligned within the tape set for my space. A small but significant holdover from the rest of my day where everything has order. I try, but I cannot set it up askew.

The air is dense. Sometimes with the sweaty dew of the vinyasa yogis who came and left before me. But, more so, dense with the holding of something. Space perhaps. Or spirit. This room does not echo, rather it absorbs; sound being one but the least of these things.

As I nestle my sits bones into my mat I feel the cool of today’s rock in my hands. Neon orange with the word “Karma”. All that feels right. And as my ordered self would have it, I place the rock in the uppermost right corner of my mat waiting for collection. I set the blocks – where they go. And the bolster – where it goes. And I unfold the blankets – in just the right way. As if there are such things.

There.

I exhale.

My fingers draw the rough ends of my long hair - the ends that are unruly because they have seen the most - into thirds. And with my eyes closed I weave a long braid over my left shoulder picturing each turn and then I tie it off. This is where my practice begins as I listen for the first call from within telling me what shape to take. Most often child’s pose. Sometimes a heart opener, cats and cows to loosen by back and hips; or an early down dog to paddle, paddle, paddle…while I start to breathe.

In this sacred space one knows to whisper and not to disturb a neighbor as they settle into their own heartbeat and their own shapes. Even before we are cued, one breathing becomes two becomes three as the breath of all begin to dance together. Ujjayi breath. Like the ocean.

And now we begin the work in earnest.

Sun Salutations. Our bodies take shape side by side - the same but different - in this space that embraces all of us. Forward fold. Halfway lift. Forward fold. Extended mountain. Forward fold. Halfway lift. Shoot back. Plank. Chaturanga. Upward facing dog. Downward facing dog. Breathe. With each move both a joining to one another and a joining of our breath to our own bodies is building. As is the heat without and within.

Low lunge. Airplane. Half-moon. The rest.

A tendril loosens itself and carries a bead of sweat to the mat. I don’t care about that despite the tidy cloth sitting at the ready and within reach. In this moment I am with others as a part of the whole but, most of all, I am with myself peeling the onion.

Pyramid. Twisting. Crow. The rest.

These shapes wring out the things that don’t belong as my thoughts race like overbearing matriarchs hastening me from a burning building as the heat continues to rise both within and without. I listen to my breath instead of their voices for I am unlearning their stories of limitation and lack; I am putting down their burdens. Instead I am unearthing the love, the light, the goodness that have always been me…before the rest.

Tree pose. For grounding.

Cactus Arms. For opening.

Lizard pose. For releasing as I cry without self-consciousness.

Savasana. For letting the practice take root. Literally, take root.

And from this corpse pose I roll, completely undone, into a fetal position. A rebirth.

And then to sitting tall again; a reclamation.

Hands to heart center with gratitude that my body can move and that this community and the room embrace me where I am and as I am.

And after ending, I open my eyes to see my blankets strewn about, my blocks at opposite sides, ends and heights, my bolster overturned and angled…and my mat no longer within the lines. And all that remains of my braid are two turns and a rubber band. I wonder to myself when and how did this happen when I have been here all along? Until I realize that I allowed myself to become messy, and therefore real.

I am drenched but calm.

The distressed door with the carvings creaks to a slow open. Palo santo dances in waves through the gap carrying energy to its rightful owners while a sliver of light stretches its long fingers in to usher me into this new life I created with just one practice.  

Namaste.