Yoga

Last time Nova was visiting, she liked to flip around on the rug twisting herself into a pretzel while yelling "Nana! Nana! Can you do THIS?"  (Well, no-- Nana could not, most of the time.)

Nova went to a yoga camp this summer, and in a few days learned advanced poses that an adult Swami could only dream about.  I can't think of anything more gratifying for a yoga teacher than instructing 3 year olds. In the right mood they will try anything, and their bodies are as flexible as young cheetahs.

Now, when you add 60 or so years it's a different story.  But supposedly everyone can still benefit from yoga, and we're all expected to like it these days.  I'm a bit of a gym rat, and yoga classes are some of the most competitive I've ever taken. Despite all the advice to "work at your own level" it's impossible not to glance around and compare yourself to others.  That's what got me in trouble. Remember that ankle injury in January? (Eagle pose.) Not being able to walk around pain-free for months put me off yoga. Although I can still be tricked into doing yoga when they just call it "stretching."

But this gave me a wonderful new appreciation for plain old walking, even on the boring gym treadmill, although Fitbit is constantly goading me to do more. The goal is 10,000 steps a day, which I rarely make unless a horse helps me out.

There's a good poem by Robert Frost called The Woodpile, where he writes about that moment in a every walk when we have to decide whether to forge ahead or turn back towards home.