Circles of Life

There is a pose in yoga called padahastasana where the yogi bends low in a forward fold and tucks the palm of each hand under the sole of the corresponding foot, creating a ring of energy with the body. Breathing and resting in this position is remarkable as you form a singular orb with your body and limbs, basking in your own vitality.

It is literally a circle of life.

Such a simple thing, but quite profound.

Recently, padahastasana offered a nudge to think about other infinite loops that hold meaning worth minding.

They bubble up – some of great substance, some incidental, some large, some tiny, but all orbit a measure of joy with their roundness.

The tiny entrance to the bird house where the wrens take residence every spring

our dog Ollie’s collar, clicked closed, holding promise of exploration and adventure

a Poor Man’s Raisin bundt cake made and devoured every Christmas, honoring our mom and grandma

the crusty knot in the maple tree that canopies the house from summer heat

the smooth rim of a coffee mug that warms the hands while offering morning sustenance

a worn wedding band encircling the finger for nearly thirty-one years

the faded rug in the classroom corner that softens the floor for bodies that share their lives at morning meetings

the pebbled sidewalk that wraps around the neighborhood for one third of a mile, offering an easy walking path

a potter’s wheel

this morning’s full moon and

the seeded center of a sunflower growing in the garden

the waxy cradle around a flickering candle flame

the tiny rainbow beads thrown from a prism hanging in a south-facing window

hot onion rings at the local pub

a warm oatmeal raisin cookie, and of course

the summer sun.

I wonder –

what are your circles of life?

These Arms

Yoga philosophy encourages the practitioner to regard oneself with love and compassion – in the present moment-as is. Not when ten pounds lighter or ten pounds stronger, but today. Now. Conversely, marketing crusaders aspire to have us mired in a morass of deficits: not tall enough, not light enough, not smooth enough, not strong enough, not young enough, not them enough.

Age and wisdom, and a philosophy that views life from a perspective of abundance rather than want, all persuade me to cultivate gratitude instead.

Consider arms, for instance. Mine are just average arms, but these are really good arms. They can move in almost every direction at will and have conveniently grown in proportion to the rest of my body for a lifetime. They can immobilize themselves when strained, and heal themselves when lacerated.

They have never broken or cracked under pressure, and have never needed a replacement part. They have lifted, pushed, and pulled thousands of pounds so far. They have climbed trees, opened doors, lifted boxes, rocked babies, swum laps, moved furniture, cooked meals, cleaned houses, stacked books, pulled weeds, hung curtains, and paddled canoes.

My arms have been getting the job done for sixty-two years now.

I can’t think of a machine that is as versatile or lasts this long without maintenance. Can you?

It’s pretty amazing when you consider it that way, right?

I think so, too.

If I sense a descent toward depreciation of self in mind or heart, I have only to look down at my somewhat seasoned, still-as-strong-as-ever arms and I shake it off. I smooth a bit of lotion on them for good measure, and stride out the door in gratitude.

Hey! Have I told you about my legs?

It’s All in the Name?

Yoga and my husband have both given me many things for which I am grateful, and on this occasion the two of them combined to give me a good laugh. Two years ago, my asana practice moved from the studio to an-at-home practice for obvious reasons. At the time, I was lucky enough to find a terrific yoga app that continues to enhance my practice. With each use, the app generates a unique session based on the user’s specifications. Among other things, I can choose the level of difficulty, background music, cueing intensity, the voice of the instructor, and the duration. And after shavasana – if I really like the practice – I can opt to save it to my “Favorites” list for future use.

Once a practice is “Saved to Favorites,” I can rename it – which I always love to do. I love to rename the practices that I love. I try to make each new name as appealing as possible and reflective of it’s unique sequence of poses. If I’m lucky, I’m able to come up with a moniker that hints at what is in store during the session. That way, I have an idea of what to expect when I choose that exercise again. For instance, the name “Sole Sundial” tells me that this one has a “sundial” stretch in it as well as padahastasana pose, which is one of my favorites. Padahastasana is when the yogi slides the entire palm of each hand under the sole of the corresponding foot while in a forward fold position (hence the “sole” part of the name).

Makes sense, right?

So one day, I was telling my husband how much I love this app and that this was evidenced by the long list of “Favorite” practices I had accumulated and redubbed.

“Would you like to hear some of the names?” I asked.

“Sure,” he replied.

“Okay, great. Here’s one –

Heart Flow,” I said.

“Hmmmm….”

“Here are a few more….Airy Asana, Humble Warrior, Plentiful Portion, and Bliss Balance.”

“Pretty good,” he responded. “Mind if I try a few titles?” he asked.

“Oh, sure!” I squealed in excitement (maybe he is finally seeing the real benefits of a consistent yoga practice, I thought to myself).

“Okay,” he said, “toss out a name.”

Me: Soul Swirl

Him: Call an Ambulance

Me: Wistful Willow Wander

Him: Jaws of Life

Me: Luxurious Immersion

Him: O.M.G.

Through tears of laughter I had to admit; though he may not take to the mat, he does have a way with words.

Room for Two

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.

Magic Carpet

Stepping into the hush I pad toward an open section of floor, assimilating the mood with my soft, muffled steps. Stooping over, I unfurl, watching orange sherbet splash out against burnished wood of the smooth floor.

Straightening to upright, I drift to the corner near the window for blocks, lavender in color – startled at how something with such heft can weigh so little – and then also a curled-up indigo strap from the wicker basket nearby. Tucking both under arm, I cross the room and lift a fringe of woven threads from softly piled hues in another corner and make my way back, navigating through flat parcels of color splayed in neat rows, making it easy.

Settling onto Creamsicle orange, I stretch, placing the lavender cubes just beyond the forward corners of my space and rest the strap atop one – a loosely coiled cobra, lazily asleep.

Peeling off worn socks, I ball them up and put them aside, off of my space, and tuck my folded blanket underneath, offering me lift and comfort. Pretzeled legs raise my knees to meet my outstretched hands which rest palms up, right there.

Ah.

Here – now.

I close my eyes; my shoulders drop.

I go inside and my day leaves me with my exhale.

I let it go.

I breathe in peace and fill my heart.

Ahhhhhhh.

This mat anywhere is home.

Twelve square feet to nowhere and everywhere.

Yoga.