Live Your Way to The Answer

Everyone should get a yoga gift certificate for Christmas. Particularly in winter, when frigidity and tenseness go hand-in-hand, the warmth and serenity of a yoga studio is the most perfect respite. I got a punch card as a gift and it has indeed kept giving.

There's a yoga studio four minutes from our house, so the convenience eliminates the excuse of distance. It's clean, the instructors are amazing and the class times are practical. Wednesday night is sacred yoga time for me. My darling husband knows this and sends me off with a smile despite the screaming, half-dressed children circling his legs.

My compulsive punctuality delivers me early to class. This allows me that coveted back corner spot with a Feng Shui view of the room. I can be clumsy without fear of embarrassment. I select my block, bolster and blanket from the shelves and take my own mat out of its woven carrying bag.

I use the time until class starts to lay down on my mat and appreciate the luxury of having responsibility for nothing and no one but myself in these moments. No one's going to cry or whine or scream at me. I have nothing to pick up or wipe down or load or unload or plan or check off. It's just me and my body.

The buttery walls emanate calm. Soft moons on the ceiling gently illuminate the room in a flattering light. Carefully placed potted trees fill in any sharp corners. Emptiness fills the rest.

The class starts with meditation and breathing and maybe three OMs. Then warm-ups and stretches and poses and reminders to pull shoulders back. I can never remember the names of the poses. I often promise to become more serious about practicing yoga, but who am I kidding. It's fine for me as it is. Don't try to make a happy baby happier.

Yoga is usually more strenuous than I think it'll be. I challenge myself, but that's only apparent when my limbs start trembling or a pained grimace appears on my face. Or sometimes a barely audible "Oh shit" whispers out in an exhale. This is no time to back down, I tell myself. You may not get another chance to work out until next Wednesday.

No matter how tough or tame the session might be, it's certain that at some point I'll gratefully proclaim, "This is awesome." Last night I thought that twice. The first was during a rest after a challenging pose. The second was at the end of class while our eyes were closed in meditation. The instructor was reciting some spiritual phrases which ended in: "Live your way to the answer."

Live your way to the answer. It's deep. I love it.

But wait. I don't have a question. Why don't I have a question? Doesn't everyone have a question? The meaning of life? The existence of God? Slingbacks or mules? Surely I must have something. My eyes popped open, meditation over. I was stumped but somehow reassured that when I did have a question, I had a plan. I rolled my mat into its bag and limply noodled my way home.

This morning I awoke with the blissful soreness that comes when your muscles marinate all night in lactic acid. So satisfying. I did something good for myself that made me happy. Now if I can just live my way to next Wednesday night.