We clean the stuff off of dressers
and out of drawers and find
This is the cost of stuff.
Pictures and drawings,
cards, notes, crayon mandalas,
each one a decision.
We make piles:
Keep, Give, Throw.
We find dentist-office toys
(fluorescent bouncy balls)
birthday party favors
(fake nose and glasses, and kick balls).
We uncover homemade books, handmade-
mixed-media-collage work, each one
A new pile emerges:
Save in the Memory Box
A newer pile (we are desperate):
Find Another Spot in the House For.
A newest pile:
Mom and Dad Decide.
now soccer games,
now bags and piles
lean against the walls
and topple over…
Two little girls
learning what it means
what it means to be
A Work in Progress.
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
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.
My monastery is rich
with little gurus. They run
to me and tackle me
with their soft
arms, bellies, squishy
cheeks pressing into
They run to me-
feet planted on my thighs,
hands on my face- and chant
I love you,
I’m so sorry,
and will you
play with me?
My responses should
sound like Yes,
Yes, and Yes;
and they do.