As she stirs us from resting pose, Savasana, at the end of our yoga practice, my instructor invites our class to lie on our side for a few more breaths. After that, we will sit, legs crossed and palms together. “Namaste,” she will say quietly to us and bow, and we will answer, to her and to each other, “Namaste,” a Sanskrit word that means, “The divinity in me acknowledges the divinity in you.” I’ll say it thousands of times, I expect, before I really understand it, but I love to be reminded that divinity is there. In me, in you.
Funny how divinity manifests, right? Today my divinity was such that I dragged myself to yoga and away from the call of my bed. “Come back,” it whispered, “come back and disappear for a while.” I chose yoga, but just a few poses in, the weight of moving was heavier than I’d expected and I resisted my mind’s silent invitation to quietly slip out the door and back to my home. OK, fine, back to my bed. A quiet triumph, I chose to stay.
It was mind over matter, in the smallest way, my divine self looking out for me. I stayed at yoga to honor that part of me, to lengthen into warrior pose and lean into triangle, to twist out toxins and stretch my ever tight piriformis, to take deep breaths for balance in half moon, and reach my hands to the sky in tree pose, hoping my outstretched arms would run across an answer or two that I could pull down from the heavens.
P.S. I came home and took a nap.