NAMASTE 2022

 

There is a wet nose at my cheek. The room is still quite dark, but I am sure that it must be close to the time I scheduled myself to get up for yoga with Hetal. It is time to get back to routine.

“Georgia up,” I call.  I surrender after her face tells me she is not getting up on the bed for a morning snuggle. “Ok, here we go.” I search for my slippers under my bed and rise from those cozy sheets (I call my cocoon) towards the door. Georgia scampers down the hall with definite purpose, down the stairs and makes a beeline to the patio door. “Good girl,” I add, and heave open the glass door to the minus 20 degree Celsius temps on the other side. The creak and groan and heft of the door mimic my reluctance. A waft of arctic air accosts my pyjamaed body from head to toe, sending a chill straight to my bones, but it does not faze fur-covered Georgia in the least. She scurries out, finds her spot in the belly-deep snow, and continues to search for just the ideal location for her morning constitution, creating her own path as she wears down the snow in her forward-backward-forward-backward trek. Clever dog. Did she memorize our lazy-man’s plowing of our snow-capped driveway the night before? Unequipped for such a deluge of winter precipitation after an exhausting drive from Northern Ontario after the snowfall of the century dumped 50 plus centimeters in under 24 hours? I think so! Unhappy with the limited path I’d shoveled last night, she even elects to go off-piste and circle the yard’s perimeter where the drifts are shorter and her belly is not as buried in the white fluff. She retraces her tracks and returns to the door with numerous snowballs in her blonde tail, tummy fur, and toes. I leave her on the mat to tease out the treats and quench her thirst as I prep for my own pursuit of fortitude. Now it is my turn to make my own paths across the yoga mat for my morning routine, after a year of frustration and failed diagnoses. I am thrilled to be back to at least one of my pastimes, but apprehensive, for certain: Will I be far behind? Will my muscles have atrophied in the year since my practice? Will my GI tract co-operate? Our lovely instructor convinces me that all will be good. “You start where you are. Where your body tells you you are,” Hetal blesses me with her sincerity and her wisdom, not to mention her gift of patience and positive affirmations. I am pleased to be reminded, but should’ve already known that yoga practice is all about my beginnings, my growth, my connection to my strength, my trust, and my ability. No one else’s. “I am what I am,” was Popeye’s mantra, and so too will it be mine. “I am where I am,” is my devotion to taking my practice from here to there when my body feels the time is right. How can I argue with that common sense? Starting Hump Day, January 19th, and my 2022 with yoga just feels right. As it turned out, it wasn’t a hump at all to climb, or press through, but a reassurance that all is right in the world. Just as Georgia persevered and found her place, I too will find my comfort zone, push past the boundaries as much as is safe to do so, and arrive at the ideal spot in my practice once again. I will be able to say with confidence, “All is right in my body. All will continue to progress in a positive fashion. No snowballs on my tail, tummy fur or toes, but definite souvenirs of stretching, toning, and full-body aliveness. Namaste, Blissify.”