I keep asking myself wHy I practice yoga.
While there are the physiological, mental, emotional, and spiritual reasons that I hang on to and share with just about anyone, there is this nagging spot in me, often silent, yet when it peeks out, it friggin hollers a piercing scream in my heart.
Like a crack in the windshield that crawls spiralling into a web.
Then it makes driving difficult.
Annoying to continue.
Possibly heart thumping.
And yes, dangerous.
But isn’t that the thrill of it all?
Tethering at the edge?
Hanging on to that brink that neither holds you or releases you.
Suspended IN where??
So I need to stop. Park somewhere.
I cover my ears. Muffle the screeches.
Yet the shrills are deafening.
I sing at the top of my lungs. Voice turns husky.
Yet the wails are blaring.
It is sad to be in such a spot.
Where no one else can hear the aching vehemence but myself.
Until I feel tired. So tired that nothing makes sense.
Except the pain from the screams in my heart.
And so I run.
I run away.
But that was yesterday.
And now I still run.
I run to my practice.
The one place where I can be aware of the screams, the one place where I can accept the sadness and pain, the one place where I can trust the cracking windshield with a clearer vision, with a rhythmic thump-thump in my breathing, the one place where I can appreciate the cracks believing it is making a better me.
My confession… … …
I am broken with a resounding heartache.
And my practice glues me back together.