It could be like this, always.

It could be like this always, you know.  Sweaty, intoxicating, dizzying, demanding,  loving, and so very achingly satisfying.

I know, because I have gone, and come back, and gone, and come back again.  I know because I’ve tested by trial and error and, here and there, with success.  I’ve given up, only to grasp on tight again.  I’ve opened and closed; shut down and started back up; left once and for all, only to realize there are some doors in my life that won’t fully close, not ever, and I am okay with leaving them ajar, and letting the air in.

We spend so much of our lives running about, multi-tasking, tending to others, answering calls and e-mails and requests, worrying, wondering, processing the incessant stream of modern day distractions.  Amid the great noise and bustle and demands of our daily life, it is a wonder anything, or anyone, gets in good, under the skin, into the blood, into the very heart, and stays awhile.  A wonder, and a gift.

And that’s why I believe the things that do stick, the things and people and words that don’t bounce right off our busy, overworked minds and bodies, are worth chasing, returning to, believing in, giving to, and working for.

As I stood before the mirror in tonight’s yoga class, I saw a burning in my eyes that I have not seen for some time.  For months, my practice has plugged along timidly, tiredly, inconsistent, painful.  I haven’t quite abandoned it completely—although I’ve certainly flirted with the idea—but I’ve found it’s hard to, well, work hard at and be passionate about something that only gets a few, harried hours of your time in every given week.

But, before Christmas and since, I have made a dogged effort to get to the studio and into the hot room.  It hasn’t been pretty, considering the state of my practice and considering the pre- and post-holiday purge.  Still, in just the last few classes, I have already seen a marked change.  My focus, my breath, my poses: it’s all felt better, looked better, moved better.  Little details in the dialogue are starting to jump out at me again.  Teachers are giving me pointed corrections instead of last-ditch words of encouragement.  My elbows and hips and shoulders are sliding centimeters, barely perceptible to anyone but me, deeper into various poses.  The long-persistent ache in my back has eased, noticeably, considerably.

I have noticed that old bounce in my step, that fire in my belly, the excitement and thrill, the anticipation.  The tell-tale signs of feeling smitten, all over again.

It could always be like this—I know.

Because—after five years and many ebbs and flows to my practice and even a few departures from Bikram and into other styles of yoga—the one certainty I have is that when I give my yoga my all, when I make every effort just to show up and try my best, when I let go of my pride and my ego and let my heart and my breath carry me through, then I am never anything but content, happy, strong, proud, at peace, on my mat and off.

It takes honest effort, sure.  And a healthy sense of humor, and confidence, and certainly passion.  It takes sacrifice.  It takes a lot of love and a lot of forgiveness and a lot of acceptance.  It takes compromise and juggling schedules and squabbles and misunderstandings and many, many lessons learned.  It takes desire, persistence, and a commitment not to give up, ever.

It is, I think, like any relationship, especially one that got in and under, one that you’re holding tight to, even if it isn’t easy, even if you’re bruised.  One that you want to last, and last.

It could be like this always, I thought tonight, staring hard into my burning eyes in the mirror.

I cupped the length of my shin, slippery, strong, in the palm of hand.  And I reached my fingertips high, higher.  And as my spine began its slow, careful arch, and my shoulder blades began to split across my back, and my leg began its long, steady climb, I felt my chest bloom open and out and beautiful.

My breath never wavered.  Those eyes in the mirror never moved or blinked or dimmed.  The world stood very still, very silent.

And as I reached and stretched and stood strong and glistened beneath the Harvard Square street lights streaming through the fogged window, I wondered how I could ever doubt my yoga, my practice, those eyes, this heart.

Because it has been like this, always.

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