Downward Dog

My son just moved 1,500 miles away from me.

1,500 miles!

Away from me!

My only son.

Doggonit.

I could be anxious in this moment with him so far away. I could fortune-tell, future-cast, imagine scenarios where he becomes rooted in a new life, states and states away from me. Or even worse, I could imagine something happening to him now that I can’t easily hop in my car and go help him.

But then, I was reminded of a thought I saw recently.

What if it all works out perfectly? 

What if he loves where he is? What if this new geography opens a new world for him? What if we find it super fun planning special trips or vacations to see each other? What if this sweet distance opens a very different type of relationship for us?

What about those scenarios?

Before he left, I helped him pack up his apartment. After several days of laundry, cleaning and shampooing carpets, moving furniture, and sorting through his stuff at home, my joints started feeling it.

I started thinking about yoga.

My back and my hips started longing for yoga.

So, I went to a class. I hadn’t been to a regular live yoga class in years—not since COVID. I’ve practiced following You Tube, Peloton, or Y classes, completed live sessions over Zoom, done asanas on my own, and even attended one weekend intensive yoga workshop. But it has been at least 18 months since I have attended an in-person class. 

It might as well have been a lifetime.

This came after about 30 years of practicing yoga—first Kundalini, then Kripalu, then Ashtanga, then Bikram. These days, it’s mostly restorative, flow yoga, and poses as part of my PT exercises—yoga to heal my body, remind what limber and flexible looks like.

But I was with some girlfriends for the weekend, so we went to a Saturday morning class. It was in an old school-turned-community-center—the room reminded me of the classrooms of my elementary years. Windows along the wall that folded out at the bottom. A white ticking clock on the wall over the door. The shadows and ghosts of hundreds of children who had lived and learned in that same room, tucked under wooden desks.

Mats obediently staggered, lined up with the teacher in the front, we settled into the connectedness and sank our bodies into the space. After so long practicing on my own, it felt so odd—and beautiful—to gather with a roomful of 20 ujjayi-breathing yogis to practice. Ocean waves of breath filled the space. It was challenging. Meditative. Soothing to my psyche.

I’ve missed you, my 50-ish yoga body whispered to me. 

We flowed through sun salutations. 

And I thought, my body remembers every downward dog I’ve ever done.

As she was prompting the asanas, the instructor told us that we have 300 knotty lines in the body. 

I didn’t know what knotty lines are, but 300 felt about right. My joints are creaking. My lower back is seized up a bit. Those lines are protesting now and then.

Open your ribs, the yoga teacher said. Open your heart. Find the balance between power and ease.

My heart skipped a bit, thinking about the knotty lines connecting my son and I. So many lines of what we have been through together! And now that he is living a country-width away from me, some of those knots are loosening. Softening. And now he’s forming some of his own new lines.

And what if the thick and complicated lines of the past are now transforming into sparkling translucent cords? What if a new, more resilient and transformative energy is connecting us?

Toward the end of class, we moved into balancing poses.

Tree. 

I remembered what it’s like to balance and hold my entire body just one leg at a time. A single leg can connect me solid and rooted to the ground. My body’s energy passed through the sole of my bare foot, meeting the vibrating energy of the ground.

Sure, we are 10 states apart now.  But it’s the same Mother Earth that supports us: Me. My son. And all the others sharing the same breath in that yoga room with me.

And all of you.

What knotty lines connect you to others that you love?

And where might you connect your body energy more deeply to this planet that holds us all?

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