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I see endless homage for YOGA.
To the uniformed yoga is the synthesis of the mind and body. But to the grossly uninformed, yoga IS the body. Poses. Planking. Hot. Ennui seems undesirable here.
I think we all yoga. We fully live in our bodies. When I just about broke a wrist, froze a hand and messed up a leg 12 years ago, I truly knew my body, because parts of it were completely off line. Like every baby. No walking. No speaking. No holding. Just being in the body.
My wife reminded me childbirth does that to the adult: you can do only one, often exquisitely painful and threatening, thing – with your body.
But we try. Yoga has entire treatises. Rehab specialists spend years learning and applying. Birth Counselors, books, centers take the physical act mental, extend it to the mind. We have to.
As a completely silent, vaguely understood part or parts of me work to undo the damage done, I remain frustrated because I control nothing except getting out of the way – of the body.
When in youth there is precious little to distract from the instant read that causes a fill or a scrap that puts the body in a place to seal the gap and make a tackle. When a long dead composer compels one finger, lip, pneumatic sequence there is no understanding of why, just fulfillment of the choreography with the body.
Now the mind does most – too much. The body is maintained (I am biking in silent darkness every day) but the Greek Ideal of the Mind-Body-Sprit Balance is, for me, a luxury of focus beyond getting it done.
There are limits, and the body remains the most time-defined one: maybe in Lent, in rebuilding, in writing this the possibility lives larger.