My Church.

When I was a kid we usually went to church on Sundays.  There were some exceptions - a horse show I was in or a trip that took us out of town - but the default was usually Sunday School.  Sometimes my Mom would drop my brother and I off at our respective Sunday school classes while she attended service; occasionally she'd let us go to service with her and the three of us would sit together in a small wooden chapel tucked among the New Jersey pine trees before heading home to a "big breakfast" of eggs, bacon, and grits.

These days I'm not much of a regular church-goer.  I have nothing at all against anyone who is; in fact I sometimes wonder, given the way the world feels like its gone mad as of late, if it might not do us all a bit of good to sit in whatever house of worship we choose a bit more.  I do still go to church with my Mom when I visit her in Georgia and I like those hours we spend there for the pause and reflection it lends to the week.  My main joy however is the chance to sit side by side on an old hard church bench with my Mom next to me; reflective and peaceful, lost together in our own personal thoughts.

As an adult doing my best to navigate this beautiful, messy, and at times very ugly thing called life, I remain grateful that as a child I was given a foundation of faith, a basis for spiritual thoughts and prayers.  These days I seem to be finding the peace, reflection, and faith that I need in my yoga practice.  I am in the midst of yoga teacher training; soon I will be half-way toward the end goal of becoming certified.  I'm not exactly sure if being a yoga teacher is in my future; I signed up for the experience because I wanted to learn more and deepen my own practice.  We will see what lies beyond that once I am finished with the training. 

Years ago I started practicing yoga simply as a way to get exercise.  I missed the ballet classes I took growing up and yoga seemed to offer something similar, a choreographed sense of movement and structure.  It was only when I took over a friend's lapsed membership at a studio four years ago that I began to practice in earnest - at first to justify the cost of the monthly membership, and then, as I fell into a rhythm with classes, I found that I practiced it because I realized how much I needed it; how much it was filling a void in my life.  I fell in love with it and all that it offers both physically and, even more importantly, mentally.

Yoga has become my church.  From the moment I walk into the studio, I am blessed with an hour (75 minutes if I'm very lucky) that is completely my own with no outside interruptions or responsibilities.  One of my favorite sounds in the world is that of an unfurled yoga mat as it lands on a hardwood floor. It signals the beginning of space for both our bodies and our minds. I love the flow of class, how breathing and movement is connected.  Even on my "off" days I still marvel at what my body can do, of all it is capable of. Yoga has been such a evolving gift; giving me the chance to practice gratitude for my time on the mat, for a healthy body.  And it gives me a moment for many silent prayers as I'm concentrating on the thing so simple and yet awesomely powerful - my breath.  Some people find this all and more in a church pew.  That works for them.  Right now, at least at this stage in my life, my own pew simply happens to look an awful lot like a jade green colored yoga mat.