I read Claire Dederer's Poser while I was travelling, and what I take from its ruminations on yoga in the American context, and as an antidote to the culture of striving to be the perfect mamma, is this: accept imperfection. It's never going to be perfect. My yoga practice will always (should always) have lumpy, crampy, difficult bits: the difficult bits are, in fact, what make me pay attention, and paying attention (aka "being present/ mindful") add up to that great sanskrit-ty goal: yoga citta vrtti nirodah (yoga stills the mind's fluctuations).
It's a good lesson today, for there are imperfections (my son's best friend moved up to a new class for summer camp, so my son, still in the old class, cried this morning, full of disappointment).
And there is flexibility: I called the school and asked if Winton can move to the older group tomorrow to be with his friend.
And more imperfections: I'm getting a cold!
And more flexibility: I'll try to knock off work early today.
And then there's the always fluctuating mind, faced by a week's worth of email and administrivia to catch up on and new Freshmen on campus to try and orient. Flutter flutter goes my mind . . . but, helpfully, snotter snotter goes my nose, keeping it real, keeping it slow, keeping it imperfect.
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