Yoga used to mean 75 minute classes full of tuning in, finding flow, sweat and savasana.
It's different now.
I kick up into a handstand against my front door for the third time in a row. I make eye contact with my son and we both smile, recognizing the relative strangeness to seeing/being an adult upside down, all weight suspended on her hands. I bring my eyes back to the floor, allowing my internal focus to shift from what I am seeing to what I am feeling in my shoulders. I press down into the floor more, then tighten across my low belly to support my back. Subtle shifts bring me away from leaning against the door. I breathe, then kick down, after assuring there is no tiny traffic behind me. Back to watching this little person discover more about the world.
It is bed time, but before crawling into bed, I spend some minutes between the bed and the wall. I go through a few movements before checking in: what hurts, what is asking for attention? I run through a unique combination of physical therapy exercises and yoga poses. I find my deep core muscles. I move my body to release my shoulders and upper back. I used to know the Sanskrit for this pose I am doing; now I can't bring to mind even the English name. It's still in there somewhere - I can feel it - but the retrieval is not available to me. Instead all I can call to mind in this moment is how to hand express breastmilk and the steps to perform during infant CPR. That is okay. I will just do the pose and remember the name again in a few years. I make a subtle shift, an adjustment I practiced on others during teacher training. It feels amazing. "This was worth all of those hours in training," I think to myself.
"Ommmmmmmm" I chant again softly into the teething babe's ear. He can't sleep, but he sure wants to. "I know," I tell him. "I know." We find rest together, curled up in the recliner, riding the waves of my ocean breath. (I used to know the Sanskrit for this too.) I realize that this is my yoga practice and it is perfect.