I went to a yoga class yesterday. The session is an hour and a half. It took me maybe 50 minutes or so to "become an observer to my thoughts" and not a participant. I really got into it. I did. By the time I flowed like water to my car, with all the stress from my shoulders floating in the sky, I felt like I really did something great. For myself!
The feeling lasted 7 minutes, or the length of my drive home. I opened the back door and heard my screaming, teething, overly tired almost 6 month old and felt a thud of weight upon my shoulders. Then my husband said she was hungry and that was it. Back to square one. I should not have expected to have 90 minutes all to myself, with no consequences to that action. 60 minutes might have been OK, but 90? Over the line.
So, a big stupid stressed out fight with my husband ensues, while our dinner patiently waited.
And let me just tell you. Things that used to be at the store and somehow find themselves on plates, in my kitchen, somewhat warm and maybe kind of tasty? It doesn't come easy. So when my husband, trying not to rock the boat any further, and wasn't sure what to do about all this warm and tasty food in the crockpot, ate leftovers instead of pork loin, that tipped me right straight over the edge.
Nobody ate dinner, and I honored my time and body only while I was in that warm, dimly lit yoga room that exudes inner strength and peace.
I hope things go better next time. Because I think yoga might be something pretty awesome.
No comments:
Post a Comment