While I don’t have a lot of time to write these days — my 12-month-old babe is a scooting, eating-everything machine — I do have a lot of time to practice being in the moment. To practice listening. To practice seeing. To practice inhaling it all in…. My babe is my primary yoga practice. It won’t always be that way, I realize. I’m grateful for this time.
As a new mom, I’ve wondered about that question above a lot — the layers of meaning. Be a yoga teacher. Be a full-time mom. Be a healer. Be a soccer mom. Be a gardener. Be a writer (who brings home maple-glazed bacon). Be a comforter. Be a tickle monster. Be a good wife (please know I’m imagining wearing an apron with whilst dawning lipstick and earrings). Be a believer. Be a forgiver. Be a peacemaker. Be a prayer. A moving prayer.
When I take morning walks, I ask for flexibility. My moving prayer. Not hand-to-big-toe pose flexibility although that is very satisfying. I mean flexibility in my thoughts, opinions, judgments, tolerance, breath. I pray with each conscious step and breath, I can allow more grace into my life. Little by little. Or, perhaps, lots by lots.
I love Mary Oliver’s work, and I like to think I can be all those things I listed above (minus the apron-wearing Stepford wife). I love the idea of being a dreamer, thinking big. I also love really trying to be here now. Practicing yoga – in whatever form that happens on or off the mat (uniting body, breath and spirit) – brings the patience, awareness and intuition to literally and figuratively put one foot in front of the other. A moving prayer.