Yoga teacher says: “There’s nowhere to go. There’s nothing to do. There’s nothing to think. Breathe. You are stronger than you think.”
I have been working you out all my life. As a child, we did ballet, rhythm gymnastics, volleyball, and all types of team sports. It was the core of our playground.
We got absolutely hypnotized by Michael Jordan during our teens, so we consecrated several years to basketball. Despite affecting the scholar marks, it also saved us from drugs. It cost a few wrist and ankle sprains too.
We used to bike until the day we fell and needed stitches. Then, more than a decade later, a special one brought the love of riding back again, and now it is our means of transport.
We continued roller skating until the day we went down a road, and our leg’s skin was so abrased that we couldn’t wear long pants for a couple of weeks.
We enjoyed playing Sunday’s softball matches for a couple of years, but a kick swept us, breaking several of our knee ligaments. Chi kung and swimming provided a miraculous recovery.
We discovered the ectasis of body and mind communion when practicing rock climbing, but it also brought a few sprained fingers. The death of a lovely friend in the rocks stopped us from trying again.
We continued running throughout our whole life, with more or less consistency.
Dear body, at some point in between, we started to do yoga—nothing serious and more like an excuse to spend quality time with friends. We tried different styles, teachers, and locations. But, somehow, yoga resonates inside. It keeps the boat afloat throughout the mental tsunamis and the soul’s darkest nights. Yoga brings no more traumatic injuries, no more competition, and no more expectations. Just thoughts blowing away when the ceiling fans turn on, and tears transmute into drops of sweat.
Is yoga the way?
I do not know. But for us, now, this is the way.
Dear body, I used to think you were a painful, fat, and weak musculoskeletal system. Please, accept my sincere apologies. Despite everything I put you through, you recover from every single lesion. You use the pain to get out those things the mind unconsciously puts in but cannot throw out. You remind me to eat well, rest and sleep.
There are always two sides to the story, and I did not listen to yours (although you speak clearly and loudly) until the New Human Touch flourished.
You are my teacher, my temple, my source of energy, and no machine could ever be as magical, mysterious, and complex as you: the human body.
Please accept my love, and thank you for this lifetime.