My yoga mat fits neatly in the narrow front hall,
extending along the hard floor from the base of the door
to the edge of the living room carpet.

I stand in samastithi and
am reminded to dedicate my practice.
The crucifix hanging to my left side,
not twenty-four inches from my cheek,
thankfully doesn’t let me forget.

I used to practice here and there
and take workshops and train
and teach and get frustrated
with my hips and hamstrings
and get angry that my
ninety-minute-primary-series-Lenten practice
wasn’t blissful.

And then I spent some years
being pregnant, recovering from c-sections, learning how to breast-feed, dealing with resentment and discouragement, discovering joy and unconditional love, and I didn’t practice on my mat much at all.

I’ve since returned to my minimum daily practice:
five sun-salutation-A’s, five sun-salutation-B’s and
some finishing poses
with my little gurus crawling beneath my downward-dog
and accepting my forward-bending-kisses.

I’ve learned more at my stay-at-home studio
than at any workshop. My teachers are mysterious in their methods,
but I’ve gleaned boundless wisdom so far
and my studies have only just begun.

I don’t practice padmasana anymore, or even savasana.
Now my babies sit on my folded legs
and assist me in hug-asana,
and we stretch out belly to belly in snuggle-asana.