Is it time to go yet?

I fell to my knees this afternoon in class.

Dropped like a bag of bricks. Crumpled like an accordion. Washed away, undone.

And the poor teacher—who watched his 4:30 p.m. class take to their mats one by one by one, who joked we were really making him earn his keep on the podium, who tried and tried to motivate us to push beyond our agony. We were miserable, yes, but he must have been really miserable.

I wanted to tell him after class that I was sorry I wasn’t stronger in the standing series, that, truthfully, I could barely breathe in that room, thanks to the nasty-ass cold taking up residence in my lungs.  I wanted to ask him if it’s healthy to come to class when I feel as though I have Mt. Vesuvius sitting atop my chest. I wanted to applaud his efforts to stay positive and keep us motivated.  I wanted to tell him that I’d be better next time.

Because there always is a next time. At least, a little. At least in this yoga.

You put on your next outfit. Sign in to your next class. Say hello to the next smiling teacher and work-study assistant.

Next, next, next.

I can’t wait for my next yoga class, already.

And, I can’t wait for this next week to begin.

Only two days of work, and then on Wednesday, I’ll drive me and my roommate and my new little car down to Hyannis and hop aboard a ferry that will carry me through the cold Atlantic to Nantucket for a long July 4th weekend of fun with friends. A spattering of days spent laying on the beach, talking with dear, kindred spirits, listening to thick Irish and Polish accents, laughing, eating, relaxing, reading, remembering the summer I spent on island oh so many years ago.

Those were my younger days, my running days, my blonder, tanner, timid days. Fresh off the early 8-hour shift at the cafe, I’d ride my borrowed bike down to Nobadeer beach, alone, late-afternoon. I’d drop my bag on an empty patch of sand, far from the other island-goers, yank the elastic out of my hair, strip down to my bikini, and barrel into the frosty, frothing waves. I’d swim and swim, parallel to shore, fighting the rough current, gasping away the cold tightness in my limbs, kicking and stroking the tension out of my arms and legs, usually for at least an hour, before finally stumbling out of the ocean, salted, summered, rejuvenated. Sometimes, I’d lay on my back in the sand, staring up at the sky, silent, still, letting the sun dry me. Other times, I’d sit for a moment, catch my breath, and then wrap myself in my towel, climb back on my bike, peddling slowly, ever so slowly, back.

It was a summer of freedom, of friendship, of having no boundaries all while trying to understand the boundaries I’d previously set for myself.

And each time I return to Nantucket, I think this—it is a next chance at vacation freedom, at loving those who love me and sharing in their company. It is another chance to explore boundaries, and remember my territory.

I won’t find myself in a Bikram studio, that’s for sure.

But, my yoga will be the sand between my toes. The salt stuck in my skin. The knots tangled in my hair. The fresh, ocean wind on my cheeks, against my lips, brushing across the lids of my eyes, a whisper of promise.