Our yoga class always ends with the instructor sitting in front of us in the lotus position bathed messiah-like in a warm spotlight. We all take a moment to collectively ponder, and then he says namaste, we say it back and class is over.
Bill and I weren't sure what namaste means, so he looked it up and found this definition: "I honor the place in you where Spirit lives. I honor the place in you which is of Love, of Truth, of Light, of Peace, when you are in that place in you, and I am in that place in me, then we are One."
Of course, now Bill always says namaste, motherfucker--which undermines my well-earned Being One at the end of class.
Today, as the instructor was gently reminding us that yoga isn't a competition and that we should just hold our poses where they're comfortable and focus on our breathing, he said, "If you can't extend your leg all the way in this pose, it doesn't mean you're a bad person, and it doesn't mean you're bad at yoga."
I started laughing as I was struggling to straighten my front leg, hold my arms out like some injured heron, stare contemplatively at my chosen spot on the floor and float my other leg in its position of serenity.
I hear next week we'll start class with a midget joke.
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