My body is soft.
I come to this recognition as I am in evening meditation
after arriving late on my first day of classes. I am seated in a brutally
uncomfortable position attempting to calm my mind. My body is having nothing of
it. Instead, it is protesting the 20-hour sleepless flights, the four-hour bone
jarring taxi ride to Rishikesh, and the hours of sitting on the floor at the feet
of my teachers of vinyasa, yoga philosophy, and anatomy and physiology. Though
my eyes are supposed to be closed in preparation for chanting and meditation, I
cannot help but sneak a peek to see whether the others are fidgeting like I am. No sign of it; they’re young, graceful
beauties who look at peace and in harmony with the universe. Perhaps this is
about being 50. And working in front of a computer too long. And being 50. And
I’m not sure, but it might have something to do with being 50.
Meditation is torture. The point of all those yoga positions
and flows are to bring the body into a state in which it can rest comfortably
so that you can give the mind a chance to quiet itself, to focus its intention, to breathe in a calm and controlled way. None of this is possible right now.
Unbidden the sights and sounds of India race through my head, evoked by the honking horns, shouts in Hindi, and an occasional mooing cow.
It has been a
very long 48 hours.
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