When I can’t take time to get to the studio, I roll out on the living room floor. The colorful strip of rug between the coffee table and the fireplace is room for my mat, two blocks, a little pillow, and the green afghan crocheted by my mom. If the timing is right morning sun slants through the blinds just so, scattering slices onto my space – warm beams of yellow.
Ollie invariably wanders in to see what I am doing, but after all these years – he probably knows. He waits while I unfurl purple and settles onto one end of the mat just about the time I say, “Ready for yoga, Ollie?” I’m not sure if he is excited, but he seems somewhat duty-bound, nonetheless. Sedentary-with-age and thirty pounds of cockapoo, he doesn’t take up much room, so I start my practice opposite him on the other end, eventually swooping and dipping enough for him to muster energy to move toward a less disrupted spot on the couch.
Yesterday he claimed his parcel of mat for the entire practice, nonplussed by the lunging, flailing, and pranayama-ing beside him. Eventually I scooched way forward, my calves and ankles extending beyond the mat edge to respect his space for community shavasana. I lay back and covered up with the soft throw. I felt my mom around me, and Ollie’s fur grazing the top of my head, my length stretched out long, his curled upon itself.
Gentle snores metrinom-ed my breath and were the rhythm of my rest.