The Mat and Me

So I have been finding my way back to the mat lately. Empiricism has taught me that my own personal sound muffler for that listless mind "upstairs" is the Yoga mat. There were countless times where I have sought and found so much refuge and quiet - the kind that literally brings you to tears - on the mat. Early this year, I told myself that I would create more space for the practice in my life. Well, five months into the year and I could count with one hand the number of times I've practiced.

So here I am, on the second week of dragging myself to repeatedly do my vinyasas.

In a hot room.

A year ago, I would have balked at the idea of a hot yoga class. "Bikram is NOT yoga", my pompous, snobbish ego said. Who knew that a year later, this version of non-Yoga would entice me back to the discipline of a Yogi.

Something about it takes me back to the same time last year in the Caribbean side of Mexico where I was inverted upside down, sweat trickling up my face, my legs slapping against my German Jewish instructor's palms if I started wobbling on my headstand. Yoga Shala offered Yoga outdoors in a little hut. I cruised over from where I was staying on a bicycle in a bikini top and linen pants. The foliage is so diverse and lush; in the distance, I can hear the waves. Three feet away, a big fat lizard was staring me down.

It was a magical place and time.