This is the way I talk myself out of yoga.

As much as I love my yoga, I also love my nights at home.

Probably because I get them so very, very rarely.  I’m either at the yoga studio, out and about with friends, running errands, working late, visiting my sister and brother in law, going to the movies, shopping, eating, drinking, writing, walking…

I could count on one hand the number of times, per month—probably per season—that I enjoy a lazy night on my couch, all by myself, with my latest Netflix arrival or a good book and a nice glass of wine, in the peaceful quiet of my own apartment.  It is rare, friends.  Very, very rare.

Which is why sometimes I catch myself doing this:

Last night, when I stumbled through the front door, my limbs weary, my head fuzzy, my stomach twitching, and my eyes watering from exhaustion, I collapsed onto my bed.

Then promptly got up, tore off my skirt, my tights, my turtleneck, and pulled on my yoga pants, a t-shirt, and a hoodie.  Threw body back onto the bed, completely defeated by a serious case of the Mondays.

Looked at the clock:  4:57 p.m.

Okay.  Approximately 15 minutes to relax before I needed to get back up, pack a yoga bag, down a coconut water, feed the cat, bundle up, start the brisk mile-long walk to the studio.  Eyes close.

Next glance:  5:08 p.m.  Beginning to think how good it feels to lie down.

Then:  5:10 p.m.  Cat jumps onto the bed with me, starts purring and putting his pawed feet on my belly and then curls right up and starts snoring.

Then:  5:12 p.m.  A dread sets in.  I totally do not want to go to yoga.  I want to stay right here.

Then: 5:14 p.m.  Oh, God.  Internal dialogue begins.

Yogi part of me:  Go!  You’ll feel better!  You’ll sweat all this tired achy junk right out of your body!

Slacker part of me:  Man…  It feels really good to be home right now.  It’s so cold out there.  I don’t want to go outside again.

Yogi part of me:  Come on, dang it!  You’ve been on a great yoga roll!  Hitting five or six classes a week!

Slacker part of me:  Exactly!  Can’t I take one bloody night off and relax and enjoy myself and NOT come home after 8 p.m. even more tired and hungry than I am right now?

Yogi part of me:  Wah wah wah.  Don’t you want to wake up tomorrow feeling rinsed and cleansed and clear-headed?  The hardest part is getting yourself to the studio—the rest is downhill.  You’re always glad you went.

Slacker part of me:  Hmm.  Shit.  Good point.

Yogi part of me:  [Smirking in satisfaction]  Yes, I thought so, too.  Now, go get your bag.

Slacker part of me:  [Shuffling into the kitchen obediently; pause to sift through the mail]  Oooo, today’s Netflix arrival is “Proof of Life”!  Wow!  When did I drop that one in the queue?  Mmm…old school Russell Crowe…  I wonder if I have any wine left from this weekend…

Yogi part of me:  [Warning!  Warning! ]  What?!  Wine?!  No!  Yoga!  Go to yoga!

Slacker part of me:  You know, the calendar is booked for the rest of the week. It’s Monday.  This is the only free night until…shit, Sunday.  I deserve to stay in!

Yogi part of me:  Noooooo!  Just gooooooo!  Noooooow!

Slacker part of me:  Hm.  These Lululemon pants were expensive, but they are comfy as comfy can be.  They’re almost like pajama pants!  Perfect for couch lounging!  I will go to yoga tomorrow night, and then to the 6 a.m. on Wednesday, and then again on Thursday night so I head into the weekend in fine form. Excellent plan!

Yogi part of me:  [Sigghhhh...]  But…  But…

Slacker part of me:  La dee da!  Isn’t this grand?!  It’s only 5:18 p.m. and I have the whole night ahead of me!  I can watch a movie AND cook a healthy dinner AND catch up on e-mail AND get to bed early…  Ha!  Glorious!

Yogi part of me:  [Siggghhh...]

The moral of the story?

Sometimes, even the yogi in you just needs a good night of slacking.

Especially if that slacking includes a soft sofa, a grandmother’s hand-knit afghan, a heavy pour of pinot noir, an empty apartment, a few scented candles, a fat and contented cat asleep at your feet, and Russell Crowe storming across the screen, out to save your day.

Yoga for friends.

I think it’s official: I have friends from yoga.

Okay, I know—that’s not really that exciting of an announcement.  I mean, I claim to be a person who makes friends easily and often and with great enthusiasm.

But, you see, considering how much time I devote to my yoga practice, given how many hours I spend in that yoga studio, you’d think I’d have made a real yoga friend or two by now.

The truth?  Not really.

When I first started Bikram yoga in Washington, DC, I was too caught up in my own head and my own practice to really think about those around me.  My studio stood as a safe, quiet, peaceful refuge, in which I didn’t have to make idle chit-chat or be “outgoing” or be anything other than how I felt on that given day.

And so, more often than not, I strode in, dropped my mat, changed, and then laid down and rested my eyes, my mind, my body, before standing up and working for 90 minutes.  I had no interest in “making friends” or becoming buddies with my fellow yogis.  Sure, I gabbed to my mat neighbors every now and then before class. And all of my teachers knew my name and blessed me with long, drawn-out conversations about the yoga and the dialogue.

But on the whole?  I kept to myself. And I liked it that way.

Here in Boston, though, it’s a different story.

Maybe it’s because now I’m much more confident in my practice.  Maybe it’s because the studio owners here encourage a tight-knit community.  Maybe it’s because I am no longer in such a defensive stance—in D.C., my practice was so focused on forgiveness, on healing, on seeking stillness amid the chaos in my life and my heart.  I was so stuck in my own head then.

These days, I am so much more open.

The proof?  My new friends from yoga.

This past Saturday, I met up with two fellow yogis for a class at one of the Bikram Yoga Boston studios I don’t normally attend with a teacher whose classes I don’t often make.  We spent weeks e-mailing and arranging this get-together—a 10 a.m. “boot camp” class with a notoriously tough teacher followed by an indulgent brunch.  On my walk to the studio, my stomach flipped excitedly a few times. Before I pulled open the door, my brain needed to remind my body to breathe, to relax, to stop being so damn nervous!

I can’t say much for my practice that morning—1o a.m. is an odd time for me to hit the yoga mat. (I am much better at either 6 a.m. or 6 p.m.)  In hindsight, I should have set my alarm so that I could get up early enough to eat something, because my blood sugar was definitely too low. But, although I didn’t feel my best, my two friends fed me great servings of their own strength and focus and calm, cool steadiness.  They helped me remember to smile, to shrug it off, to let go.  They carried me through.  As friends oftentimes do, right?

Afterward, we faced the freezing cold and walked into South Boston to hit up the new brunch offerings at Barbara Lynch’s Sportello.  Great conversation ensued, complete with talk of yoga (of course), as well as house renovations, fashion, blogging, nutrition, Amsterdam, American medical practices, outdoor markets, English cuisine, Boston’s weather, and child-proofing a home.  Oh, and much time was spent gushing over the food.  And then gushing over Barbara Lynch, who is famous ’round these parts for the incredible collection of restaurants she’s launched and who swung by our table to chat for 10 minutes.  And then giving great hugs and arm squeezes and making promises to see one another soon and plan another yoga date.

And all this before 2 p.m.!

I stumbled home exhausted and elated and carrying my post-brunch purchases from Sportello’s bakery/deli:  a thick slice of coconut cake and a container of chunky chicken salad, complete with walnuts, raisins, and cranberries. My body hummed from the deep yoga rinse; my heart sat full and happy.  I made a mental note to send my two friends a quick note thanking them for a lovely morning.

And then I thought:  It is funny, this community of yogis.

We share in so much together—in the hot room, in the locker room, on these here blogs—and yet we all experience our yoga so differently, so individually.  We stand so alone on our mats.

I used to think yoga was so very solitary.

And yet, with enough effort—or, sometimes, hardly any effort at all—we connect. We share our yoga.  And share ourselves.

I understand this now.  And this understanding has enabled me to meet and practice with yoga bloggers “in real life,” to introduce myself to complete strangers in the hot room, to talk to my yoga crush, to attend parties and happy hours hosted by fellow yogis, to give out my e-mail address and my phone number so that fun post-yoga plans can be made.

I don’t know who to thank for all of this—the Boston studios for encouraging such behavior or my fellow yogis for showing such interest and warmth or the legion of yoga bloggers or the universe for putting me in such close proximity with so many fascinating people.

Or, if I should thank myself, my practice, for reminding me to stay open, to anything, to anyone.

Hmm.

Hell, perhaps, we all get a friendly pat on the back.

If you do nothing else…

If you do nothing else this weekend, if you run here and there, if you go out, if you stay in, if you celebrate Super Bowl Sunday, if you watch Sunday night specials on TBS, if you whip up homemade guacamole and bake your own god damn chips, if you do any of this, or none of this, just please, try to have a good time.

Usually, for me, that good time includes:

Attempting a yoga class, no matter how hung over or sore or unmotivated or uninspired I feel.  I am, always, glad I gave myself to my practice.

Hearing my mother’s voice, listening to my father’s weekly wrap-up, sighing in contentment that they are together, there in Stoneyway, and happy.

Walking the streets of my city, even if my cheeks burn and frost.

Linking arms with a friend, and laughing, and loving.

Reading a few pages of words, of newspaper, of the New Yorker, of that book I have kept beside my bed for six months, of poetry, yes, many lines of poetry, and perhaps even a page or two of that letter I wrote to you and just never sent.

Puttering.  Weekends are made for puttering, in and out of stores, around the house, up and down the stairs, to and from the here’s and there’s.

Indulging in at least a glass or two of wine.  Or beer.  Or dirty martinis.  I’m not picky.  Clearly.

Sitting down and remembering this, all of it, in detail, and trying to capture, with pen or with fingers pressed to keypad, the moments and momentum of my life, of these days, the weekends that come and go so quickly.

I never get it all.  But, hell—if I do nothing else, at least I try.

Happy weekend, my dears.

The things I wanted to say.

These are the days I strangely love Boston—when the cold sharpens, and the snow falls slowly and a little sweetly, blanketing cars and tree limbs and hatted heads with just the whisperings of whiteness. 

It is not a blizzard, nor is it so bitterly frigid you lose the feeling in your toes and fingers.  It is just grey, and wintry cool, and the world is quieter, slower, emptier.

Yes, I like these days very much.  I am a true New Englander, I suppose.

I am also truly stuffed up with words lately.  My throat burns a little from all I’ve wanted to say but haven’t.  Such as:

When my yoga teacher tells me to ignore the heat and humidity, I want to shout, “How about YOU try to ignore the heat and humidity when your entire body is on fire, and you can’t see straight, and your stomach feels like a hurricane-tossed ocean, and every single cell is screaming, ‘Abort! Abort!’  Yeah. YOU go ignore that and get back to me on how it goes, okay?”

When my mother tells me to make sure I am taking care of my sister, who is approaching month seven of her pregnancy and who just moved into a new house and who is stressed and exhausted, I want to say, “Yes, Mother, I know—I am taking care of her, as best as I can.  But, um, you know, I’m pretty stressed and exhausted myself here…and…well, do you ever wonder who’s taking care of me?”

When my dear friend throws me the casual, “What’s up?”, I desperately want to go and stand, right there, right alongside her body, and then lean, and lean, and lean in, and let her support me, as I reply, “Well, it’s all up right now, every single thing in my life is in the air and floating around like balloons, and so I spend my days chasing ribbons and grabbing onto whichever one is within reach.”

When my yoga crush doesn’t say anything at all, I want to whisper, “Hi, hello, I’m right here, I know you see me, and I know this is all such a silly, tip-toed dance, and how about you come right here, right now, and sit down, and stay a long, long while.”

When my friend demands an answer, I want to holler, “I can’t!  I can’t!  Don’t you see this heavy load?  Who, in god’s name, do you think is helping me carry it?!”

When that fellow yogi stands in the locker room picking apart her practice and the teacher and the class, I politely stay quiet and mind my own business, but inside, I’m holding in a “Lady, shut the hell up. Of all things in life, yoga is the very last thing you should spend ANY energy being negative about!  Come on!”

When he says “it was good talking to you,” I sigh, and say “thanks, you too,” but really, truthfully, I will say it only here, way in the black back of my heart sits an “Imagine if we could do this, together, for the rest of our lives.  How’s that for good?  How’s that for heartbreak?”

This morning, on the quiet, snowy drive into work, I opened my mouth and my lungs, and I sang some songs, even though I barely knew the words, even as the melody went on ahead without me. 

Because sometimes, like today, especially like grey todays, you just need to hear your own bright, billowing voice.

It hurts so good.

“It’s okay. This is a safe pain. It is good for you.”

The words rung in my ears, back and forth, like church bells.

“Safe” pain, huh?

I thought about my teacher’s words throughout the last 20 minutes of class.  And then on my cold, quiet walk home down the salted sidewalks of Boston, I thought about these words more, picking them up and throwing them down like dice.

The question I kept asking was this:  What are the safe pains in this life?

Yoga is one, obviously.  When my teachers tell me to work through my pain to heal my body, I believe them.  ”You conquer pain with pain.”  When they tell me that the aching is good, that I am breaking apart old injuries and damages with all this hurting and cracking, I think, yes, you are right, I am okay, my body is opening, I can feel it.

Because physical pain—that, I get.  Sore muscles, a creaky spine, snap-crackle-pop knees.  That’s nothin’.  Irritating, perhaps.  Exhausting, sometimes.  But, manageable and fixable pains that go away as quickly as they arrive.

I’ve always had a fairly high pain tolerance, even as a kid.  I grew up with nearly all women, aside from my dear father, and although my sisters and I never necessarily played rough, I was always the one who pushed things right over the edge.  My father would warn, “Okay, okay, enough, someone’s going to get hurt,” and just to test him, just to see if it really would hurt, I’d keep going.  And when I’d cry out, in surprise, in pain, my father would simply shake his head.

But, you see, in this yoga of mine, everything is connected.  The body, the mind, the spirit, your soul.  And so most everything I hear in that hot room, I apply to those various facets.  Because I’m working each of them atop my mat.

So, the physical pain being safe—understood.

But what about the emotional pain, the mental pain, the heartbreaks?  Is any of that “safe”?

I think about the turmoil I felt in my dark years, in Washington, DC, when the hurt and loss welled so high and deep within me that I couldn’t keep my footing, I couldn’t hold my grip, and I was set adrift, floating, the current carrying me away.

I think about the crushing blow I took, right in the gut, in the very softest and most sensitive part of my self, when I finally, fully, realized he could not and would not love me as I loved him.

I think about my spells of loneliness, and the wandering passages of time, and the lingering questions, and the bitterness and worry and doubt.

How is any of this pain “safe”?  How is it “good”?

Perhaps it is like this:

We are our own warriors. We battle, daily, to be secure, stable, on steady feet. We protect ourselves, as best we can.  We wear armor; we pack provisions.  It is often a long journey.

But, pain exists everywhere, in body, mind, spirit, and soul. It is the war we will never stop fighting if we don’t face it.

And so, perhaps my teacher meant that the pain, this day’s particular pain, is safe, because you are here, right now, in the hot room, facing it and fighting it, and wearing it down, slowly, surely, with great passion and determination, with grit, without gimmick, in the simple silence of your own mind, amid an army of fellow fighters, offering solace, marching steadily toward the promising rise of release.

And then it up to us—rather, it is up to me to remember that I am safe with my pain, of whatever kind, so long as I continue to come, and take my stand, and stare into its eyes, steady my breathing, remember my strength, and raise my sword.