Laura took this picture when I was going through my twenty-five year old yoga practice, the order of which hasn’t changed, even by one asana. In a way, the picture conveys my deeply personal connection to this routine of mine and it does so without a single written word. While I am always thinking about what to write next, this photograph told me to write about this ritual that I can’t live without.
I got into running in my early thirties and it instantly became normal, a part of my life and one I always made room for. My shoes and related gear got packed, no matter where I was going. I never cared about speed or distance, even when I began. I would only run faster than my normal cadence if a pretty woman passed, but I left that competition to my imagination as my feet gradually slowed. Competing in the 1982 NYC Marathon and finishing in the middle of the pack was as good as it was going to get. I have been out to pasture ever since, but hardly miss a day.
As an avid runner, the idea of sitting crossed-legged on a cushion seemed like the perfect complement to pounding the pavement and a much softer way to greet the day. Running has a mindless, repetitive nature, a complete distraction from most anything of substance, especially when grabbing for your breath becomes the priority.
When I first started reading about Zen, I never considered it a religion, rather a way of looking at the world and what the hell I was doing in it. I can’t say for certain where the idea of my life being a journey came from, but I was already turning in that direction when Zen destroyed any map I might have had and pointed me toward the unknown, beyond coordinates.
I developed a fairly regimented practice after leaving NYC for the high desert country of northern New Mexico. It suited my new life, having left behind all that was familiar to me. It felt like I was finally playing an active role in how I wanted my new world to look. In the beginning of my NM time, I was focused on learning the rituals of Zen, but I gave all of that up quite some time ago. It might take another Kardashian-like photograph to get me going full tilt on my deeply personal relationship with that discipline.
In my first few years out there, my morning routine began with a quiet sit and a few prayers. After waking up from the cushion, a cup of coffee or two was next. Then, came donning the running uniform, which varied with season, but my favorite has always been just the shoes and shorts. During the first few years, I was still finding my way and getting used to the life I had parachuted into from the familiar, daily urban warfare of NYC.
Yoga was forced on me and it is likely the only way I would have taken it up. When I look back to that time and my arrival in Santa Fe, It seems like so much of what happened to me was perfectly orchestrated to get me to where I am now.
I have always been incredibly shy at parties and one night this woman approached me and we began to talk. If I didn’t go to that party, I wouldn’t have my yoga practice today. Gail was a gifted yoga teacher and after several years of living together, I reluctantly agreed to see if I was any good at it. I was a lousy athlete as a kid, relegated to right field or catcher and usually the last to be chosen by any team for any sport. I was and still am pretty uncoordinated, tripping over my feet or bumping into walls, clumsy and self-conscious.
As I became more comfortable with the yoga poses, it started to feel like a kind of private ballet to me. I never liked the idea of being in a studio with others because it felt so intensely personal to me. I devised a plan to cull the best input from Gail and create a practice I could do on my own. I have never counted the positions until just now. I do twenty different poses during the course of my half hour routine, the exact same one I put together back then.
When I sit, it is all about the Mind. When I run, it is the Body. My yoga practice fits perfectly between the two, adding Spirit to my morning gumbo. Normally, when you move, you are always thinking about the externals associated with the movement. Yoga takes me inside, shining an internal mirror as I inhabit the space of a pose from within. It is a slow dance of the spirit and this photograph captures it better than any words.