Sometimes Yoga Is Cheeseburger in a Bar

Tonight, my yoga teacher flew me. As in, she lifted me up by my hips with her feet and held me in the air while I hovered over her. For about five minutes. She held me in the air with her legs for five minutes. It was incredible.

All week I've been very, very tired. I stopped progesterone on Monday, and my energy levels have been sharply sliding down ever since. I've also been craving a cheeseburger like a drowning person craves air. Nothing else could possibly do. A cheeseburger. Aaaaaall week.

I had a very significant conversation this afternoon. The voice of the spirit, tender and persistent, finally took root: you are okay. I am okay. There's nothing wrong with me. I've been toiling tirelessly for nearly a year to find out, really and truly, I'm not messed up. I'm fine.

And I had planned to go to a group class after my private yoga class tonight. But my body was begging for rest and a cheeseburger. So my yoga, my union of body and spirit, tonight was sitting in a bar, alone, eating an organic chili cheeseburger with a locally grown organic salad, listening to indie rock and people watching. It was the first time in my thirty years that I've ever sat in a restaurant alone for a meal. And I was okay. I was happy to be alone there, resting, feeding my body. I felt so utterly not-alone: My husband was waiting at home for me. I'm making a beautiful new friend. I have all the old friends; I carry them with me everywhere. And the spirit, she just keeps breathing me, holding me, holding me until I hear her, holding me until I know.

Something is happening to me, I think.

P.S. In a few weeks, I'm going to a workshop to learn to do the yoga-flying thing. Anybody wanna come?