Tonight I did my last evening beach side evening yoga class. It's a beautiful place, the Yoga Temple, ocean on one side, jungle on the other, images of Buddha, and a fountain with a small stream of water. I decided instead of lying down in the traditional Savasana (corpse pose), that I would remain in Siddhasana, or seated meditation pose, and, being the rebel that I am, that I would keep my eyes open. All the lights were off, and surprisingly I found it easier to be completely present when I could see the upright silhouette of our yoga teacher, the beach and ocean beyond him, and the full moon rising over the water, when I could hear the tide and the breathing of those around me. I caught glimpses of bats, and heard the sound of countless jungle insects and animals.
In yoga I try to be the best, I work very hard to get everything exactly right. My downward dog is a thing of beauty, I can do tree with my eyes closed (very briefly, I'm working on it, alright?) and with hands in reverse prayer (not bragging, just saying), I can do crow without falling on my face, and on a good day, headstand. I'm not bad, above average depending on the group I'm with, so my sitting posture was naturally, flawless. I was perfectly in, on and around the moment, I was the damn moment, you get what I'm saying here? I was doing everything exactly right.
In front of me an elderly couple from NYC lay in Savasana. They had struggled through the class, the man especially; we won't even mention his Warrior 2, and I never got a look at his downward dog, because I was too busy admiring mine from behind in the mirrors at the rear of the room, but they were both in good spirits throughout class, despite not being able to do most of the poses. While I sat, flawlessly, taking in the beautiful evening and congratulating myself for my excellent pose, I watched the man's hand reach toward his wife, and her hand reach toward him. They held hands for the final minutes of Savasana, their imperfect yoga finishing perfectly.
