If you practice yoga you already know this: It looks easy, but it's not.
Like most athletic endeavors, yoga is one of those things that makes you feel physically better (and proud!) when you're done. It also has the added benefit of providing another kind of boost . . . one for the mind.
We almost always begin with Downward Dog (not my favorite pose, by the way), during which point the instructor invites us to ground ourselves in the present. To arrive in the moment. To show up.
"I am here. Here I am. That's what I say when I find my mind starting to wander," she says. Okay, I think. I'll try it. And I do, but it doesn't really work. I'm too focused on the pressure in my hands and wrists, and wondering when we're going to get to that Child's Pose. Or better yet, Shivasana. But I manage to finally "arrive" and work my way through the various postures until, at last, we are finally lying on our backs. Success!
Later that morning I go for a walk. The air is immoveable and warm, over eighty degrees already and not yet noon. Not feeling all that great, I find myself caught up with worrying about, well, having cancer. Yea, it happens sometimes, despite my best efforts to keep a lid on it. Before I know it I have tumbled down the rabbit hole -- How much longer do I have? I'm tired of feeling bad. I want my old self back. Yada yada yada. Then I remember...
I am here. Here I am.
I take another two steps, and repeat,
I am here. Here I am.
The trees shade the sidewalk on one side of the street as the sun still climbs toward its noonday peak. A man pushes twins in a tandem baby stroller up the hill toward me. He's wearing a sweatshirt. He must be burning up, I think. His wife, following behind, instructs him in Indian. I don't understand her words, but I can see the beads of perspiration popping out on his forehead. He must be thinking . . .
I am here. Here I am.
Or of ways to shut her up.
I am stomping downhill, quicker now, taking long strides with what my wife calls "praying mantis legs." Sometimes going downhill seems harder than going uphill. Is it a trick of the mind? The shadows break into glaring light. I squint behind my sunglasses. It is hot again.
I am here. Here I am.
Thoughts of cancer turn to ones of the planet melting. The floods. The fires. Impending nuclear doom. What can I do?
I am here. Here I am.
The sun begins to feel good, as does the solid ground. The shade is cool. My rubbery sneakers land and bounce, lifting each foot in turn. My legs are a miracle. I am grateful for them. And for everything, really. The sun, the sky, the feeling of my own skin.
I am here. Here I am.
We plan. We cogitate. We reminisce. We worry and fret and agonize and fuss, then we do it all over again. We let our thoughts control us instead of the other way around, and it's exhausting. All the while we have the power to bring our attention back to the present moment, which is all we really have, and yet we've made running away from it practically an art form. Life can't be spiraling out of control once we understand that we never had control to begin with. Take a breath, then say it with me,
I am here. Here I am.