It’s not very yogic of me.
To eat an entire bag of chocolate-covered almonds in one sitting, sporting my dog-hairy sweatpants, that is. But I do it sometimes, on afternoons when I am alone and the thought of doing anything remotely responsible is about as unappealing as dried dog poo in the yard.
Gorging is not graceful, balanced or in any way beautiful, which is what I imagine are three great adjectives for yoga, or the yoga life, at least. But I’m wrong. Because the yoga life is not a matter of perfection. In fact, the whole journey is sloppy and untethered at times. If you only knew how many times I fell on my face, with hot cheeks mashing the cold floor as I practiced my crow pose. Same goes for forearm handstands and similar asanas that took courage, persistence, and so much freaking practice to finally achieve.
Life, and yoga, and love, and anything worth doing is going to burn, and bruise, and cause some embarrassment.
So I allow myself to be gluttonous on a Saturday afternoon, to laugh at my unshaved legs, the thorny black hairs like barbed wire on old fences. I snort at the sight of my frizzy dark curls, a wild mass that could win awards in a contest called “Convoluted,” If that were a thing.
But this is me. I am unkempt today. I am bruised and I am still practicing, still working to achieve things. A favorite author of mine advised me (well, not personally, but she advised her readers) to chill out, to occasionally fall down and enjoy the hard ground. Because if I’m going to get up and dust myself off eventually, I may as well stay here a bit and breathe easy — with too much chocolate and not enough hygiene.
Give yourself a break today, friend.