For the second night in a row, I’m ready to sleep at the blasphemous hour of 7:00 p.m.
This has everything to do with Abbey’s instruction to “align movement to breath rather than breath to movement” after watching me execute a yoga pose with military mindlessness.
That piece of advice, delivered with an admirably Yoda-like terseness, has had a stunningly disproportionate impact on my asana practice. For the first time in a long while, I’m wiped out by śavāsana, pitched headfirst into a fatigue so deep it’s enough to swallow all the fractious voices in my head.
And it’s a silence that’s utterly welcome.
Ever since I turned thirty (not too many weeks ago), it seems that all the space I’d been cultivating the past several months has morphed into a Hydra of heady possibilities. I’m suddenly doing a number of different things I’d never have remotely considered doing before, and as a consequence, the heretofore serene oligarchy in my brain has degenerated into an unruly mob. My mind’s buzzing when I go to bed and buzzing when I get out of it, and for all the dizzing excitement, I haven’t had a moment’s peace.
Until the last two days, that is, when I focused all my attention (after weeks of neglect) on the impossible simplicity of just breathing— of just allowing the breath to dictate mind and movement, of simply attending to the sound and texture of inhales and exhales. And I did it (or tried to do it) for the incredible and inconceivable span of two hours.
(Honestly, resuscitating flat-lining business or renovating old houses is infinitely easier. Which accounts for why there are far, far more managers and contractors in the world than yoga or meditation masters.)
Difficulties aside, the benefits have been immediate and clear. Which is why I’m going to bed after I upload this post.
Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawn . . .