The silence was irresistible, pulling me out of slumber and into the room with two choices: yoga or writing. Both quiet, me activities. My body’s sore muscles beckoned me to stretch, but my lazy bones were tempted by the chair and swirling thoughts. I stood there for a moment wasting precious minutes debating what I should do. Tick-Tock. My head crooked from side to side: desk, mat, desk, mat.
Mat. In the quiet of early dawn I want to plunge to depths sleep can’t fathom. There was a computer on the desk, not my journal, so I knew writing risked winding up in shallow zone. While one program loaded, I might open another tab blinking: status, status, status. The quiet in my house needed to be revered with the mindfulness of a cynosure. I lit my three candles, unrolled my mat, peeled off my cozy socks, and became a mountain.
The first posture I practice everyday is Mountain Pose, Tadasana. Simple enough, it’s pretty much standing straight. The beauty of the pose is the attention that is brought to it. That’s actually true in all yoga postures, but it seems more notable in simplest ones. I squish my toes down, rooting them and grounding myself. After building a strong foundation, I move up my body, calling each muscle to purpose, each cell to attention. All energy, no tension: a balancing act if ever there was one. It is then that I begin connecting with the rhythmic breath that will carry me all the way through practice until I release it in the final pose of relaxation: Corpse Pose, Shavasana.
I used to treat Mountain Pose as a stepping stone into practice. Yes, I would root, ground, breathe, but I saw it more as an entrance. The peace I longed for came at the end, after all my body’s hard work and my brain’s intense focus. I would collapse on the floor, let go, and wait for bliss. It always came, radiant peace washing over me like a wave. Sometimes I needed to wait for a while, but it always came. Always.
Until I became a mother.
Maybe it still comes, but I’m no longer there to experience it. Even before my practice begins, my little ones stir. Coos and babbles increase in volume until they become the hoots and hollers of what is certainly the first notes of a brotherly bond. They need breakfast. Or if it’s afternoon, lunch. Or dinner. Or help. Basically, me.
During these years of babyhood, I am mama above all else. Mama is always needed. The time I spend on my mat is not an entitlement; it’s a gift. A gift with strings attached, as each of my arms is tethered to a little boy I cherish. They tug and I respond. Maybe I am a their puppet at this juncture in life. I don’t care. I’ve lived enough of my life completely unattached. I am grateful for the connection. Even in its constancy. Perhaps, especially so.
My life is not just about me anymore. Not only do I accept this; I welcome it. Taking tender care of my babies feels exactly right. Although I spend a good portion of my day squirreling away moments for myself, I have no desire to escape. Motherhood is certainly not a dreamy state of existance, but it is my dream and I am deeply honored to be living it.
And so, I feel grateful to have found an hour to practice yoga, yet mindful that little voices beseech me to return to them. The expanse of time I used to have in Shavasana no longer exists. My abyss of bliss is now cluttered with children clamouring for my attention. That used to sadden me. Sometimes yoga is hard work, but Shavasana was always the reward: the cupcake waiting for me after a practice of steamed vegetables.
So I decided to eat dessert first.
I have found peace in Tadasana. I don’t hurry past my mountain anymore. There is nothing to rush towards. I calm down. I settle into the posture: a mother rooting herself in Mother Earth. I stand there until waterfall of radiant peace rushes over me, tip to toes. It is inside that profound stillness that I find the impetus to move. I raise my arms and begin to salute a sun it’s too early to see, but I know it’s there, rising,
as am I.
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