I do yoga in my jeans.
Many mornings, as I meditate, my son crawls on me.
He pulls up and buries his head in my chest as I attempt to take deeper breaths.
He loves my chanting.
He looks up at me and breaks into a grin,
as I lean my forehead down to touch his saying, “ram, ram, ram.”
I dive onto my mat at nap time.
Ready to move and feel my mood shift from exhausted to refreshed.
I listen for crying.
If my son wakes, he plays in the room as I finish up.
His bouncy balls flung everywhere.
My yoga blocks are his drums.
There’s a holiness to it.
This new practice.
It is not the practice I used to have:
90 minutes at a yoga studio.
Wearing new yoga pants and a bright colored tank top
Showing up early, to journal.
Going home after class to an empty, quiet condo.
Drinking my coffee and knowing I’d be meeting friends for wine later.
Now I’m forced to live my yoga.
There is no “studio time” and “the rest”.
It’s a continuum now.
My daughter asking if she can do yoga with me.
Which she does, for about 5 minutes and then,
“Mommy, can we go downstairs?”
My yoga is covered in spit up.
It’s listening to a recorded meditation while my son nurses on my chest.
Feeling him softening down as he finally finds rest.
Where I am now.
Grows more sacred every day.