I’ve been doing yoga for just over a year now. It really struck me as amusing this morning when I realized that the anniversary of ths profoundly life-altering decision had come and gone sans my attention to it. (Anybody who regularly reads this blog will know I’m a sucker for anniversaries).
It’s not that it’s been a year since the first time I got into downward-facing dog pose – actually, a friend from long ago, J, introduced me to yoga nearly a decade back, and I knew then how special and extraordinary it was. But I was clueless as to how it could fit into my life.
Not long before we left for the Philippines, Chris suggested we enroll in a yoga class in London. Having someone with whom to enroll took all the fear out of it for me (I was shockingly unfit at the time), and I never hesitated for a second. That lasted 6 weeks, though, and then we were off, visiting France (where we did a few asanas, but nothing that impressive), road-tripping around the U.S. (where we did exactly nothing for more than a month), and then making our way to the Philippines, where copious amounts of stress, heat and humidity for the first few months meant that – in spite of that being the picture-perfect scenario for getting my practice up and running – yoga was forgotten again for a while. The running excuse was that we didn’t have mats.