streams of sweat and consciousness

I unfurl my mat in that familiar funky room and a tumbleweed of cat hair and dust skitters away from it. The cat has been gone 6 months; the mat has sat waiting even longer.

I sit in that hot humid air, wondering if I'm up for this and knowing that the only way to get 'up for it' is to be there. My yoga mat admonishes me to 'breathe,' and I remind myself to keep coming back to that for the next 90 minutes.

A man walks past in inappropriate shorts. His 'half-mast' status loud and clear and understandable in a room of nubile, half-clad mostly women. Just breathe. 

I think of Freckles, who bought me this hot pink hot top 2 Christmases ago. I think of Mrs. Lady who got me back into this hot room, and of Waggner who made it work closer to home. I think of The Dish - a friend I haven't seen in too long who greeted me in the studio foyer - her hug warm and sweaty and oh so welcome. 

I struggle, and I breathe. I bend, and I breathe. But the air doesn't seem to be working. 

Second half of class at last arrives, and I crumble to the mat in a sweaty heaving savasana. The first few poses are wonderful. And eventually the teacher's words fight their way past my constant mental noise. She says "go immediately to your stillness" but I hear 

Be still and know that I am God.

Be still and know that I am God.

Be still and know that I am God.

Be still and know that I am God.

Light and melodic and connecting me to all of my family and to my faith and to all that I'm afraid to let go of trying to control. Something shifts, and I no longer know if the wetness on my face is sweat or tears. I lay there for most of the rest of class, no longer hearing. And knowing only my grief, and the gratitude for being here.