My yoga happens in the middle of things —
in the middle of the house.
I am in downward facing dog
and the little ones run toy cars
over the side table,
over the piano bench,
over my back and leg.
They put their little hands on my waist,
their sweet foreheads on my side,
hugging me because I am there.
They camp out beneath my upside down “v”
so that my jump forward becomes a leap, or a walk.
They stand, sit, or squat at the top of my mat,
and now my forward bend is many breaths longer than I planned.
They show me where to go deeper
and when to breathe slower
and how to move faster.
I am in corpse pose
as my husband walks by —
he lifts, lengthens, and releases
each leg in turn,
coaxes my shoulder blades into lying flat,
holds my head and extends my neck.
He’s been paying attention.
When I come back to sitting
the little ones bring the strap for my rolled up mat
saying, “here ya go” and giggling.
My husband smiles at me from the chair.
I am loved.