I am curiously amazed and thankful at how church-like of an experience yoga has become for me. As long as I have been on this earth I have not found connection with the many steepled buildings I’ve stepped into. I went because I was “supposed” to, but it was not church for me. However, I have not been without church and without fellowship and without worship. I have found and continue finding these things in the people and places and experiences all around me, every day. Now, breaths are prayers, flows are worship songs, and I spend the entire class in conversation with my God.
When I leave, limbs are pliable, heart is warm, and eyes bright & wild. But I enter the studio heavy with baggage, although sometimes my excitement to begin masks the fact that I’m carrying anything. It always hits me though, on that mat. As I begin to focus on my breath God reveals to me what is in my heart. Usually, it is no surprise to me and I welcome the next hour or so to help me focus on and work through it. But there are times, like today, that what He has to say catches me off guard. I feel dizzy with the realization that what I was bringing to the table wasn’t the heart of the matter. I have been halfheartedly praying for patience, believing that to be the answer to the restless stir inside of me. But as it turns out, I am not ready for patience at all. Because I am still very much freshly wounded and angry and frustrated and wanting. I have been praying for patience but what I need is comfort.
I am not used to asking for comfort. I am used to asking for whatever tools I need to complete the job at hand on my own, which is why I asked for patience to get me and us through these next months or years or whatever is in store. I am used to fixing things. For myself and for other people. I am not used to handing over myself to be fixed. I am not used to presenting my problems to others and admitting that I need help.
So, of course that is the very thing that I need to do.
I am hurting and I am angry and empty and sad. I pass by my reflection and quickly glance down to the soft curve of the lower belly and I just feel empty and alone.
I am asking for comfort and I don’t even know what that means, or what would be helpful. I do know that phone calls are too much for me to take on, so that is my only real request. If you pray (to whom does not matter) then please say a prayer for me. I humbly ask for any way you see fit to brighten my day and send me love, because I’m having a hard time doing it on my own.
Even now as I sit here typing this out on my phone in a parking lot, I am tempted to erase it all and nobody would be the wiser. But I’m going to ignore that temptation and practice my hand at asking my friends for help.