Recommitting to the Intention

Lying on the floor on a rubber mat, breathing deeply, and emptying out the contents of my brain. Reverse thinking. No doing, besides breathing and letting go.

Then, suddenly, I sweep my arms over my head and stretch from the tips of my fingers to the tops of my toes. Arch up and bridge out, raising and lowering my arms and spine as I breathe in and out and find my zone.

Heart beating a little faster, standing now, sweeping arms up overhead, now bending in half, suddenly pushing a leg back to a lunge, palms pushing against the floor, now the dreaded plank, and we freeze, holding ourselves up, the beginning of a pushup. Now, lower, and halfway up into Cobra, then Up Dog, now curling toes under, pushing sitting bones up, blood rushing as I hang my head and hold it, breathing, waiting for the next gentle suggestion.

Shaking it out, pushing into Crescent, arms overhead, pivoting, Warrior one, two, three, my thighs are burning, but as I hinge forward that my back lays flatter (though not yet as flat as I'd like), and I am touching the floor with certainty, not grazing with fingertips, not hovering six inches above the floor. Boat pose, leaning back but not relaxing now, no, shaking, a thin sheen developing over my whole body.

Hip flexors, calves, lower back, relaxing the shoulders down, rolling the neck, tipping the head back, spine crackling.

Every Tuesday night, my yoga instructor asks us to commit to our intention. It can be a simple one. No lofty goals needed in an hour of yoga, a nice reminder to someone like me, someone as flexible as a two-by-four.

I commit. I commit. I commit to each pose because I want to be healthier, more flexible; my stomach likes it, I can tell. I commit to letting go of the day, of the six days leading up to this hour. I forget it. I indulge, and I work at it.

I will likely never be able to sing or play piano, despite my deep wishes, or paint a beautiful portrait, or change the world, or win a Pulitzer or Booker prize. But for one hour, I can commit to breathing. Just breathing.

I need to commit to writing. I relax into it, but at the same time, if I'm serious, I have to work at it, invent synapses, create bridges, reach out through my whole body, exercise vocabulary, strengthen my mental reserve, push myself to the limit. I have to commit. Instead of my fingers finding the floor, they find the keys, and hopefully, eventually, they are skyward, and I am saying, even if I'm shaking, finally. I'm where I want to be.

As my yoga instructor reminds us each week: If you could call it perfection, what would it look like, feel like, be like? In this moment, call it perfection, and know that it is enough.