Namaste
You read in an article that Indians take offense at this, a throng of white women Namaste-ing before and after yoga practice. A white woman wrote this article. You assume she’s warming up on a neighboring mat, piously aloof. You read somewhere else that the phrase is perfectly acceptable, carrying a distinct yogic connotation. It does not mean I bow to you; instead, the divine in me acknowledges the divine in you. Another Western woman wrote this, and you assume she, too, is present. You assume everyone you don’t like or trust but whose judgements consume you is proximal. You do not believe in the divine within or without, which is not the opposite of within, and somehow that makes it truer; a betrayal of intuition that confirms language too abandons its dependents. That even your words won’t keep you. But here, a room without windows or Indians, there is no judgement. No competition. No obligations. Don’t compare yourself to others. Lead with your breath. Namaste.


Mountain Pose
Stand tall. Elongate your spine. Arms up. Fingers steepled above your head. Align the base of your posture. Do not ignore the spasm in the lumbar region where your vertebrae were fused. Do not ignore the throb in your sitz bones that your doctors assure you is evidence the nerves around your cracked pelvis are regenerating. Do not tune out pain but also do not surrender to it—not the discomfort or the fact that even your good news hurts. Adjust. Amend. Alter. Make the ...