Instead, I'm staring at my feet. They resemble small tree trunks. I can't see my ankles. My toes look even more like little square Legos than they usually do.
I can blame the incredible swelling on wearing these today in month nine of pregnancy:
This means that the class I taught last week was my last regular class.
Not forever.
But for, well, awhile. Months. Maybe years. My Wednesday night home will now be my own--with my family, where I am anxious to commit myself to being.
Yesterday on my way home from work I heard Miranda Lambert sing "The House that Built Me." My thoughts immediately turned to hOMe. My journey there began in 2005. I was this fragile little heart who needed so much healing, and I've traveled from that person to the one who--I hope--has helped to heal others.
And then there's my home within hOMe: my mat. The home I can return to time and time again, the home that in the past few years I haven't returned to much.
I thought if I could touch this place or feel it, this brokenness inside me might start healing...
And although I don't feel broken--not in mind or body--I know that my practice is. I long to dig my fingers into my mat, to press my heels into her beautiful purple softness, to balance on just one leg, on just two arms, on just my head. I come to child's pose on my mat and immediately my breath slows, my mind calms, my heart settles in. I breathe. Like riding a bike, my breath returns to a place of ease every time I return.
I long to do this regularly.
For the last five years or so, I've been guiding others.
I'm ready to go back to guiding myself.
I cried yesterday in the car as Miranda sang; I think I knew deep down that even with two regular classes left, I wasn't going to be there.
Yesterday, I let them go.
It's now about 5:30. I've unrolled my mat onto my dining room floor. My fingers press in, my swollen feet aren't too swollen to feel rooted. Grounded.
Home.
beautiful...
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