Finding the time and motivation to practice yoga feels nearly impossible these days. As 2020 continues to roll by like a B-grade horror movie, I feel unsettled, displaced within myself. This past year started off for me with the tragic death of my sister. Then came the frenetic American montage through the pandemic, devastating racial injustices, sociopolitical turmoil, wildfire evacuations, and zoomschooling. Most recently, my mom moved out of her nursing home to come live with us. These have all become reasons I tell myself that I don’t have time for yoga.
When my yoga teacher’s home burned down and she stopped teaching virtual classes, her personal tragedy became my convenient excuse to stop practicing yoga, full stop. Once again, I found myself spiraling down a whirlpool of excuses, and consequently self-neglect.
I haven’t participated in a yoga class since summer, before the evacuations and my mom moving in. I am finding ways to reintegrate whispers, snippets of yoga into my days though. I remind myself that yoga isn’t just about attending a class or committing to my mat.
Yoga can be as simple as recognizing the calm ebb and flow of my breath as the air caresses my lungs, effortlessly, and repetitively as the ocean does the shore. Yoga is pointing my toes upward and rooting to the ground through my arches while I’m navigating the smart tv for my mom. I stack my vertebrae one on top of the next and drop my shoulder blades, growing tall like a tree. With the smallest of steps, ever so slowly, I find myself moving forward.
A couple of months ago, I made a commitment to myself and to my therapist, who also happens to be my yoga teacher, that each day I would meet what she calls a “daily minimum viable practice (DMVP.)” This is the minimal time and energy with which I can attainably commit to my practice, that being at least one breath. I challenged myself to begin with three breaths a day and for each of those breaths, contemplate something for which I am grateful.
Most days I remember to do my DMVP and consider it a sacred moment to connect my body, breath, and self with the earth. I’ve slowly built on to this practice and find myself pausing for a breath or two and acknowledging gratitude throughout the day. This is an especially soothing practice when I feel stressed or frenzied, which is often. Just one breath and a gentle nod of gratitude is a pinpoint of light through the fog.
My favorite place to practice my three breaths with gratitude is outside on my porch. The fresh, now smoke-free air is soothing and easily becomes one of the things I’m grateful for. Nature often pops into mind when I practice gratitude. I am thankful for the sound of the water that bumbles over the rocks in the creek outside of my kitchen and the towering redwood trees that feed us oxygen and give us shade in the summer. Other times, profound relationships come to mind like that with my son or having had 44 precious years alongside my sister. I’m grateful for shelter, food, health, and safety. It’s amazing how quickly thoughts of gratitude bubble up once I get started.
I strive to be mindful in the moments along the quest to offer myself compassion and care. It’s easy to get caught in the web of self-neglect. I embrace the notion that I’m unworthy of the time and energy to invest in myself. I fail at so many basic self-care tasks, knowing full well the repercussions. I know that if I don’t floss, I’ll get gum disease and my teeth will fall out. If I drink a bottle of wine at night instead of a nice, hot cup of tea, I’ll feel like shit in the morning. If I eat cheese and crackers at midnight, I’ll gain weight and my already stretched-out fat pants won’t fit. These choices have a cumulative negative effect on my health and well-being. I become disappointed in myself and overwhelmed by my grossness. In these moments, yoga feels far away and unachievable. Then I stop and take a breath. I remember my gratitude that I have dental floss at my disposal and my teeth haven’t fallen out yet. I’m thankful to have enough food to nourish me and fat pants to cover my ass.
The other kindergartners on my son’s classroom zoom screen all look so well-groomed and engaged. I wonder how the other parents have their shit together enough to have their kids clean, dressed, fed, and willingly on screen by 9 am. I can barely get my own teeth brushed by then, let alone my kid’s. Maybe they’re just better at hiding it. Most days I’m running to stand still among the endless piles of laundry and dishes that are multiplying exponentially as I take the time to write this. But then I remember that is life happening. It’s a busy, imperfect, beautiful life intertwined with so much love and harmony. My gratitude is boundless for the constantly churning mess in my house, as I feel sympathy for my friends and neighbors who lost all their possessions in the wildfire.
If this past year has taught me anything at all, it’s to accept the personal victories no matter how small they may seem. They add up like coins in a piggy bank. I find a thought of gratitude for something – anything – I take a deep breath to grant myself a moment of calm. I accept that simple act as a win for the day.
