Recently, I’ve been walking down “memory lane” in regards to my intimate relationship with yoga practice.

My relationship with yoga was not one that Taylor Swift sings about. There were no “sparks flying.” I wasn’t enchanted to encounter it. In fact, my initial motivation for starting it was so that I could “give my muscles a good stretch” and get in even more “real” badass workout sessions!

The thing with with me is that I have, naturally, always been a “do-er”. I want to plan, calculate, fret, run, shout, MOVE. I want to do. I acquire a sense of safety in consistently “doing”. It’s like I’ve been in this race ever since I was born, but someone forgot to inform me of what I was racing for! Just do. Do. Do. Do. I don’t know why. I don’t even want to stop and wonder why. Leave me alone. I’m too busy aimlessly doing something, doing anything.

The thing with yoga is that it is a practice of being. It asks nothing of you, except for the most fundamental task–to breathe. You can imagine how confounding this principle was for somebody who has a propensity to want to do anything but simply “be.” It’s ironic, because my first classes were in restorative/meditative yoga, and I clearly remember, that I didn’t like those too much.

I surprised myself by not giving up on the practice entirely, and decided to take a vinyasa flow class. This type of yoga practice is more active, as it emphasizes meditation IN movement. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: so much of the pain I have felt in my life was acquired in movement–rapid, violently fast exchanges that left me breathless, crippled and left my world spinning. They don’t kid when they say life hits you hard. Since so much of my pain was acquired in movement, it is only natural that so much of my healing has occurred in it too.

Unlike running, I don’t attain the immediate sense of endorphins that accompany physical activity in yoga. No, no, no. Yoga can’t be that blunt. It’s a clever little swindler! The effects of yoga almost sneak in, without any notice, into my everyday life. I suppose the the benefits of my practice are subconsciously registered, and seem to unveil themselves as momentary expressions of self-compassion, kindness and love.

I think it’s because the mind lives in cognitive intelligence, whereas the heart resides in intuition. Yoga seems to enable my heart to return to its oldest, most primitive roots of wisdom. My mind, my trusty “do-ing” steed,  is unable to rationalize and comprehend this regressive process–this return to a familiar love, a familiar truth that has always been within me.

The mind seeks out to discover finality–it gains a sense of accomplishment through paths that lead to a final destination. It searches. It moves. It does. Whereas, the heart– the childlike, trusting naive heart–it just experiences. It rejoices innocently in the beauty of present adventure.

My kindhearted readers, I cannot explain the “why’s” of how yoga has allowed me to feel so expanded and whole. I can, however, promise you that if you, silently, watch me as I practice, you will not only see, but also be able to  FEEL the expansion process. Because it is an experience. It demands to be felt.

The heart’s “knowledge” is an accumulation of fearless experiences–an amalgamation of organic, whole experiencing that is left unaffected, and unregulated by mental processing. So, though, yoga and running give me very different experiences, both share one undeniable similarity: they allow me to become vulnerable. They give me permission to fail, to fall, to mess up, to laugh, and to try again.

At their very essence, they grant me sanctification to simply “be” human. I leave the mat, or track, liberated, humbled, and more open. Most of all, however, I leave, more in touch with myself–my deepest, age-old soul. I leave with a heart shining full of love and light. I am once again electrocuted back to life, in the most gentle of ways. I am truly and wholeheartedly awake.

 My relationship with yoga was not one that Taylor Swift sings about. There were no “sparks flying.” I wasn’t enchanted to encounter it. My love for yoga was not one that was seductive in nature. It did not erupt with volatile passion, or consist of aching restless nights.

No. It was more subtle–almost like two pieces of a puzzle finding one another, merging together, without anyone having the slightest clue that they were ever even apart to begin with.

“Love, itself, is what is left over when being in love has burned away.”

Namaste.

❤ a few of pictures of my silly imperfect, but beautiful practice ❤