The consensus of expert opinion regarding a regular yoga practice is fairly unanimous: it’s good for you. It provides clarity, strength, longevity, and, for some, an overall feeling of synchonicity. For me, it ‘s just enough that I don’t feel like crap.
I am not a model yogi. While I do have a regular practice, I do it in jeans and, often, with a cup of coffee. When missing my practice in the morning, I’ve been known, at times, to do my practice in the evening with a nice full glass of wine. I prefer a black beret to a white turban, skull and cross-bones to an Om symbol, and Radiohead to Ram Das. Even though I do it in unconventional ways, my practice has all the reverence, fortitude, and discipline of any more “traditional” means of yoga. I meditate, breathe, pray, give thanks, and move mindfully with great intention.
Lately, as life’s challenges have mounted, my practice has gotten stronger and more profound. I slip into it with the same natural effortlessness with which I make my coffee in the morning. Each day, as the intensity and vigor of my practice grows, I find more of the essence of my practice spilling over into the rest of my day. I can stay with the breath even in traffic. The confusion of having three jobs is becoming as simple as chopping wood, carrying water, and contemplating my buddha nature.
For a time, with this steady diet of yoga, I find myself able to manifest and digest what I always remind my yoga classes about:
When the yoga practice ends, the real yoga begins.
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