Hurdles and Mountains pt 1

         It's the morning and my body aches.  I think of my yoga mat rolled up and waiting for me- ready for me.  I think of everything I need to do, and yoga didn't make the cut.
 
         It's morning yet again and like always, every damn day I have to wake up.  But today I'm in a tent next to the lake.  Loons howl, chipmunks chirp, the water laps the shore and at my feet my little dog snores.  My body aches- like always.  I have nothing to do today.
        
         I spent years developing my practice.  Two years were dedicated to practicing every day.  Those years during my work/study at Daya Yoga in Brooklyn, I mostly went to classes- any class.  Every class.  I spent a couple months backpacking in central Europe, so I committed to guiding myself.  I counted breaths- three breaths for each posture and the postures were whatever I could remember.  I could guide myself for 45 minutes.  I was proud.
         Two more years passed.  I studied and I practiced.  I took a teacher training intensive in North India.  Then, I went to an ashram.  I practiced for two and a half hours every morning and an additional ninety minutes every afternoon.  I ate at the same times every day, I read, I walked, I slept at sunset and woke at sunrise.  I wished I could live like that forever.  Just me, my books, and my practice.  I wondered if once every year or two I could come back- spend four to eight weeks in a holy reset.
         The world outside my bubble was calling. I needed time and space to transition, so I went into the mountains to stay in a small village.  To talk to people again.  Those mornings practice recessed back to ninety minutes, I read a bit less and ate a bit more.  Sometimes I'd get drunk then come home and eat a Nutella and banana sandwich.  Then sleep in and wake when the sun had been up well before me.
         That month in the mountain village solidified what became my practice.  This was what and how I could do it anywhere.  I followed that practice for years to come.  I moved with my breath and focus in routine across so many airports, countries, states, cities, houses, backyards and bedrooms.
         My morning practice was a friend when I didn't have many.  It was purpose when I felt aimless.  But most importantly it was my health- I was working with my health.  Working with my chronic pain, untreated injuries and the perpetual mental anguish of complex trauma.  My practice helped me be closer to myself and in turn it brought me closer to god.  And god brought me into a present relationship to the life and people around me.
         Yogic medicine and adequate psycho-behavioral therapy wove the disassociated parts of me back into this world that was losing me.
         I'll never forget one of the most enlightening savasana experiences I've ever had.  It was summer in North Germany and I was on my mat on the floor of an old hay loft converted into a spring board dance floor.  My favorite corner to practice was in front of large windows looking out to the trees.  I lay there, no one around me, eyes closed in full surrender, decompression and integration.  In my mind's eye I saw a circle form around my body and I became a gear in the machine of the universe.  Spinning and ticking, I was integral to the happenings of the cosmos.  A message became clear to me- I keep practicing and the gears of my life and energetic field will align.  There will be less struggle for me and my path will become clearer.
         In retrospect, these stories are so beautiful and inspiring to me.  Today, next to the lake they seem so far away.  Because lately I don't see how to get into my practice.  When I look to it all I see is the Hurdle.