Day 1: Movement


Inspired by the courage of those around me, expressing their thoughts, feelings, ideas, opinions, experiences, in an open forum, I have decided on two things: first, to commit to twenty-nine days of practice—and second, to allow my voice to speak aloud, to allow my words to flow, to allow myself to reach out and interact with the world around me.

So often I feel like a silent witness, reading and listening with my eyes and my heart, but rarely ever sharing of myself—it feels, when I settle into this place, just for a moment, like my brain has slowed—it feels, at times, like I am living under water. And so, here we go, on a journey that begins this first day of February, in the year two thousand and twelve.

As I write this, I have finally settled into a place of physical stillness.

Today, day one, was all about movement, from early this morning until just about an hour or so ago. For the first time in a long time, I rose before the sun, while it was still dark and moody outside, pulled on my yoga gear and headed out the door. How quiet, how slow, how kind the city in the early morning darkness—I had forgotten what magic can be found before seven am.

Happy to be on mat, happy to have a few minutes to sit before asana…happy to have stuck to my heart’s desire. And then we started to move. And I felt creaky. And sore. And I felt my body’s confusion, her  discontent. What was happening? Why aren’t we still in bed? This is too early for us to move! We need a hot shower, we need breakfast, we need, I need, I need...and as we moved, as each action became about breath, my mind began to settle and the stories of the body lessened.

I fell into my practice, I fell into movement and when the red flags of injuries past flashed, I slowed down even further, but didn’t stop moving. I was in my own world, yet connected to each being in the room, each being on the street, each being in the world.

Connected. Quiet. Aware. Gentle. Sweet. Slow.

And I moved from this practice—pausing to be still for meditation at home—to the next three of the day: first, observing, moving, absorbing the teachings of prenatal training; two: teaching a room full of the most diverse beautiful women I have ever met at the other end of the city, and three: guiding a kindred spirit through her practice.

Moving from once place of movement to another, even moments in between the moment were about moving.

My heart feels full and I am aware of a clearing that has been in motion for the past few days. It’s as if a channel is opening and I am communicating with myself at a deeper level. The selves I left behind, the ones I grew out of, the ones I shed as I made one choice after another in life.

I can hear myself, my real self, and today, she wanted to move. A lot. She needed—I needed—the outside to reflect what was happening on the inside.

And today, I am profoundly grateful to my body for carrying me through; to my breath, for keeping me grounded, and to my soul for allowing the love to come in.


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