This post is for the group of women to whom I offered restorative yoga over the past twelve weeks and from whom I learned as much as I taught.
Tonight was our last meeting all together. What I saw: Anywhere and everywhere is sacred. What I heard: Everyone’s story is our story.
The group has met in a space that is basically two co-joined, industrially-carpeted hospital rooms, with a couple of awkward floor lamps brought in to soften it a bit. Which sort of works, but not really. Can you picture it?
To that setting, for tonight’s closing ritual, add a stubby, bright candle for an impromptu altar made from someone’s scarf. Pull out a few yoga bolsters for those who want to sit on the floor, and some mats for the Savasana that will come later.
What truly transforms this place and time is the women sitting together in the most ancient and ordinary of circles, allowing into that almost-tangible container everything that makes us human.
Here I remember what I’d forgotten — and I realize that somehow, once again, I’ve become more cynical, afraid, or disconnected than I’d realized — before this moment. I gaze into the light. I listen to the silence and stories about suffering and joy.
Sometimes afraid of reunion, sometimes
of separation: You and I, so fond of the notion
of a you and an I, should live
as though we’d never heard those pronouns.