It is Time

Dear Yoga Friends,

Each of our days holds twenty-four precious hours, and depending on our circumstances, those hours either drag on endlessly or rush past us on bird wing.  I have a wonderful poet friend who once told me that she simply could not carve out time to write anymore; instead, she had to “take a machete” to her days in order to hack down the stalks of obstacles, obligations, and should-do lists.  I love this image of a powerful woman wielding a powerful tool with such focused intention, determined to create moments, or uncover an entire hour, in which to practice her craft.  She began saying no to some things and yes to others.  She reordered her days.

In mid-Ohio it is newly spring, and the ground has yet to soften completely.  Still, green shoots are sprouting up all over the land, and I am reminded that while I can’t control everything, I can acknowledge my priorities.  I can nurture certain aspects and interests in my life, and I can leave others behind or cut them out, or hack them down.  Instead of trying to do everything, living in a mess of half-done-ness and emptiness, I can choose one or two things and do them well and with delight.

It is time to reorder, shake out, cut down, rearrange.  It is time to take ownership of the few hours I have to call my own.  It is time to ask for help if I need it, to honor my life with joy and contentment instead of dishonoring it with resentment and bitterness.

What will you nurture this spring, and what will you cut out?  Will your yoga practice be like a bud popping through the soil reaching for the sun?  Has your practice become burdensome, like a dreaded chore, like thick, knotted jungle stalks that need pruned and tended?  How will you create moments or uncover an hour to devote to your passion, to whatever brings you joy, to what makes you feel alive?

What will your yoga practice look like on your mat, and off?

 

 

 

 

An All-Saints Kind of Gratitude

I look back through Novemember’s
just-hanging-on leaves, the negative space
of our promises to drive through Malabar’s
winding road, taking in October’s blasts of color.
The weeks have whipped by, the leaves ignoring my
requests to stay, to never fall away, and my melancholy
drips bitter without the sweet.

Then I see our love’s first fruits hanging
on you, lying on you like so many apples,
our children’s morning sweetness, their bodies’
hard softness, wild hair, pokey elbows,
squishy bellies and meaty feet.  They grow
unconditionally from our branches, buds,
and blossoms.  They grow their own stems and leaves
and seeds and develop their own autumn flavors.

We drop away when we are ripe

thankful for what we are

what we have

and what we miss.

Filling the Vase

I used to stand in our galley kitchen, feet planted in tadasana,
peeling the tough skin from grapes and cutting the pulp into quarters,
and I marveled at my blessings.

Today I stand in the same kitchen,
haphazardly in tadasana,
making quesadillas
baking cookies
while the babe pops in
from the yard with
dandelions and clover
for my vase,
and then again
to say
“I love you,”
and again
with fallen
petals,
and I
still marvel,
how a boy
sends Time
flying.