During my last restorative yoga class, I compiled my grocery list. I acknowledged that and returned to my breath, but it sent a signal–I think I’m becoming bored with the gentle classes. They’ve carried me so far, but now I’m eager to try harder. What a relief. What a rare feeling of enthusiasm.
I nearly fell on the slippery bricks walking to my office. I recovered, and then I slipped again with my next step. I felt my hamstrings seize up to hold myself up. I imagined falling on my bottom or on a knee, fearing not how much it would hurt, but how long an injury or even a bad bruise would keep me from yoga.
The lesson? Don’t get overly enthusiastic about yoga. Appreciate the class I take and plan to take the next. Enjoy the class, then let that go, too. Yoga can be easily lost to me, so don’t get too attached. In between classes, pay attention to what I’m doing, such as crossing the street.
And pay attention to the kids. I picked up daughter from play rehearsal, and she chatted about Dr. Who while we walked to the car. She continued in the car. We stopped at a little store, but she never stopped talking. She prattled on and on, as we took things off the shelves, and as we paid. I looked down at her. Before I could deliver a friendly admonition to not talk too much, I saw her face. It was suffused with joy. She must miss this, I thought. She was the sunshine of my husband’s life. He adored her. She must have felt like The Tops when she was with him. She must have been feeling it again, as I let her talk and talk (and talk) about something she loves. I said something friendly to the salesclerk (the only other person in the store. It’s very small.) so as not to be rude, but only in the moment it took my daughter to catch her breath. She didn’t break stride. She continue to talk about the Doctor.
We don’t have a lot of leisure time together these days. It’s not that we’re all business, but by the time we’re done working, we crumble into a tired heap. We don’t spend much time just hanging out, being creative. At that moment at the cash register, she was full of enthusiasm. She wanted to share it. It was time to let her talk, and it was time to listen. I received her words as if I were a pillow, a place for her happiness to sink in after she spread it out into the world. As we left the store, I even asked a question about the Doctor. Her answer took us to the car, through the ride home and into the front door.