Doing Begets Doing

I used to teach yoga in a bar. Because that made sense to me. The environment a host of escape. The practice within that space the seeking of oneself.

A union of contradictions to kick off Saturday mornings. The rotted smell of spilled alcohol under the bar mat. The morning bright on the night’s revels: a lost earring found in a student’s downward dog, the hushed clink of glass as barbacks unloaded the dishwasher and restocked the bar, the collection of floor grime on my feet as I wove between class mats; breathe in, two, three, four, exhale.

I’d pop the cork for mimosas five minutes after Savasana.

I used to teach yoga at my church. Another thing that made sense to me. Gentle spines on the carpeted floor. “No, it’s ok when we say ‘OM’ God understands, this isn’t a prayer to another.”

I used to teach yoga at a women’s recovery center. Giggles and curses as they rolled in sweats and low-rise jeans. “That was good, I like stretching.” One said as they filed out. These women who’d lost families and found each other.

Fifteen schools are closing in our district.

The principle opens the car door for my son at morning drop off, and is greeted by my son’s enthusiasm for the day, his friends, his lessons.

“Mama, Thursday is our school Thanksgiving meal, I don’t want you to miss it.” He whispers at bedtime.

The gratitude of this holiday I love, the rest, my heart no longer with; the heavy food indulgence, the assault of sales, the mythologized narrative of a false pilgrim peace, but I recognize what Abraham Lincoln was doing when he declared the day in 1863; to provide pause for the country in a time of utter darkness and division, and so of course my love, I’ll be there, thank you for the reminder:

Books are banned, but still we write.

Doing begets doing.

In a bar, on a mat, we reach towards the light.