On Union: Why I Practice Yoga

I don't sleep very much on Wednesday nights anymore. And it is not a bad thing.

See, Wednesday night is yoga night. Yes, the class is relaxing. I consistently come home happy and peaceful (which itself is a miracle). My body feels alive and my heart and mind are brimming with delicious victuals, juicy and fragrant, savory and sweet, crisp and sharp and piquant. And so I sip and stir, inhale and savor, lick my fingers and digest, until about midnight. If only journaling worked for me. I envy you journalers sometimes, with your quick-chicken-scratch-and-then-set-it-aside.

I've been trying for weeks to write all this down, organized, making sense outside my mind. I've been trying to defend my desire to practice yoga to all the people who seem to wonder if I'm balking on my faith in Christ by doing something so "eastern" and "mystical" (who seem not to realize that Judeo-Christianity is an eastern religious system and boasts as rich a mystical tradition as any other world religion—but I digress). But you know what? Yoga needs no defense.

(At this point, I must issue a plea to my dear yoga-teacher and longtime-practitioner friends: if what I'm thinking is out of line, if you must point out a wrong thought or motive, please be gentle. I really need you to be gentle.)

Yoga is something of which I sincerely believe I am capable—another miracle. It's something I need to achieve, something essential, blood and water. Something I lack. The word yoga means "union": body and soul, mind and heart, woman and earth, woman and God. I don't care if I never stand on my head or fold my face through my knees; I'm not in pursuit of physical prowess for its own sake. My mind and my heart operate in isolation from each other, except when my heart rages at my mind and my mind scolds my heart, grenades and rocks flying to and fro, the crossfire bloodying my soul. My body has been violated over and over, and my self-protective escapes from my body have alienated me from it. I don't know it. I don't trust it to hold me kindly or carry me safely.

And all this strife and suspicion drowns out God's constant-but-gentle voice. I am so not down with that.

I want to practice yoga, quieting my mind and returning to my body, hearing and feeling myself, telling myself patiently "you can do this," as part of my journey away from this internal chaos. My friend Andree has been telling me for years to open my heart. She says it all the time, "remember to open your heart." But I didn't understand what she meant until a few weeks ago, when Tamie told me the same thing. My heart doesn't open easily—all kinds of tight muscles and bad habits and padlocks keep it sealed. But here's the thing about this class: my teacher is my friend. And being near a friend does a lot to loosen those locks.

So when she asks me to work my body with an open heart, I can manage it. Man. Doing physical things in the midst of other people is so, so hard for me. Biking, dancing, swimming, whatever. It makes me feel vulnerable, like a mother animal in the throes of childbirth surrounded by peckish predators. But somehow, in yoga class I feel safe. Safe! This is huge! I don't feel rushed or pushed or ashamed. No one is waiting for me to trip. No one shouts at me when I'm not perfect. In fact, there is no perfect. Perfection isn't the point. Efficiency isn't the point. There is no finish line, no "faster, faster," no dominating or losing. No one works against me, and I work against no one. What matters is not how quickly I can get the job done.

What matters is who I am. Who I am matters. What is in me is worthwhile and good. There is something worthwhile and good in me. And what I can do is enough. What I can do is enough. I don't need to be more than what I am to be okay. I can hardly bear the exquisite relief of finally taking this in.

And then there's my breath. Tamie has mentioned the grace in my breath. Sometimes I meditate on my breath, the gift of each inhale, the fullness, the purge of each exhale. This is grace in my life, my continued existence. In meditating on my breath, in embracing the grace it represents, I can accept my existence as good, as a gift. I can be grateful for each moment and release the shame and guilt of being here, occupying space here on earth. I can accept God's kindness to me, honor his presence within me instead of wondering what the heck he was thinking when he made me. Because, really, being ashamed of myself is being ashamed of God's work. Practicing yoga allows me to accept my being made in the image of God, the divine treasure nestled in my frail earthen body.

And I am frail. Frail and inflexible. I am practicing yoga to be strong, to learn how to bend without breaking. To love myself exactly where I am on my journey, and to embrace the journey. To let go of longing for the destination. To let go of what is missing in me, even to realize that nothing is missing and that I am whole, right now, just as I am. To stretch, breathe through the intensity of it, and grow. To hold on when I want to quit, one breath more, one breath more, one breath more.

Tamie said two weeks ago that injury is never part of this process of stretching and breathing and growing. I'm grateful that no one could hear the astonished sob of revelation and relief that escaped my soul when her tender words took root. When it hurts, if I back off, I acknowledge that my body's violators were wrong. Hurting me was not okay, is not okay. When I heed my body's "Stop! No!" I am whole again. When I allow myself to be hurt, I exist in a crippled state, always needing healing, always catching up. But it's okay to protect myself from harm. It's okay to operate within my limits. It's okay to be only what I am, to do only what I can do.

Yoga class is light and joyful. People laugh. There are friends there. There are pregnant women there! Everyone is learning something.

In the final pose, lying on the floor in the dark, I am overwhelmed by the oneness of it all and my place in it. Below me, the earth pulls me to itself, it supports and sustains me, cradles me. All that is above me presses down, blankets and envelops me, caresses me. And there I am in the middle. Supported and protected. Belonging on the earth, belonging to the maker of the earth. Belonging with my friend-who-is-my-teacher, with my classmates, within my body. There is love in that moment, love that I need, and I am blessed.