My practice

In the days after your death, my dear friend Natalia called me from Spain. She, along with her prayers, condolences, and love, told me, "Now is when your yoga practice really starts." Before I even got off the phone, I ridiculed her comment in the back of my mind. I thought to myself, 'I'm supposed to think about yoga, now!? My soul mate died and she tells me to do yoga?' And for one week, I didn't do yoga. And that was OK.

But after those seven days, my body started to mourn its practice. My back started to hurt and my lack of eating started to take its toll. I got dizzy spells. I threw up constantly, my brain was traumatized. My spine throbbed from laying in bed and rolling around in the fetal position. My body couldn't handle the grief I was inflicting on it. So, if only to ease the pain in my lumbar spine and encourage an appetite – I went back to yoga.

But what I've gotten from my yoga practice isn't just a prescription for my back pain, it's peace.

Five days after your death a bear came into our garage. He made my heart sing because you'd known I'd really wanted to see a bear – so I felt he was a sign from you. But he did something else too. He climbed up onto a bench and left muddy bear prints all over my yoga mat. I don't remember why my mat was out of the car that day, where it always lived, but it was. And I didn't notice the prints until I went to unroll it a couple days later. But now when I unroll my mat, I see those prints and those scratches, and I know that you're reminding me to practice.

You want me to practice my coming back to my breath – because my breath can't escape the now like my mind can. You want me to practice coming back to my body – because my body needs to be strong to support the loss of my heart. You want me to practice coming back to my drishti (my focus) – because I need supreme attention to recognize intuition. You want me to practice coming back home – home was with you, so I am now homeless – but through my yoga practice I'm reminded that home is actually inside of me. And since you are now infinite, you are here too.

When we met, you had never been to a yoga class. But you embodied the yogic limbs more than I certainly did. And while over the next year and ten months, I taught you asana – you taught me breath, you taught me stillness, you taught me peacefulness, you taught me moderation, you taught me self-study, you taught me compassion, you taught me to breathe, you taught me purity, you taught me awareness, you taught me truth, and you taught me to surrender. Here I was, new to town, and desperately searching for a teacher – when I had him right there all along. You were my teacher. And you were a sage.

Lately, as I've moved through my practice, I've felt a chill shudder over my skin. Maybe it's a whisper from you that's awakening the hairs on my body. I close my eyes and I think of you. My breath deepens as I run through the pages in my memory of our love. The closest I get to intimacy now is the touch of my teacher. I close my eyes and imagine a conduit, a gentle caress from you. It's a desperate place to be. My body doesn't understand you're gone. My body craves you, but I can't give you to her. So I give her my practice, the other thing she knows.

So I am alone on my mat. I am alone with my breath, though it used to ebb and flow with yours. I am alone with my dance, though I used to have a partner. I am alone in my thoughts, making space for you to come join me. I am alone in my body, fantasizing about when I used to press it to yours. But I am not alone in my surrender, because you are there too.

So now, I practice in sadness. I practice in a soulful search for a crevice of peace. I practice in solitude because even if I'm in a room full of breath, I can't hear yours. But in my practice, I commit to hunt for the collective union of breath, for that "Om" that embodies me and you and all of spirit.