The last time I did yoga, I was five months pregnant. I walked into a class that I had attended on a quasi-regular basis. The teacher, however, was not familiar to me. I explained my situation, and she told me to rest when I needed.
What she should have told me was to go home. I wasn’t ready for her intense, work-up-a-sweat style. I spent most of the class in child’s pose and the next two days in bed.
A newborn baby, sleepless nights, a stress fracture, a torn meniscus and carpal tunnel have placed yoga no where near my to-do list. (The story of all these injuries is quite unglamorous. I am simply getting older.)
When I announced the return of my five-minute challenges, my favorite Yogi reminded me to keep my shoulders down. After chuckling, I did a quick self-check. She was right. My shoulders were up to my earlobes.
Instead of hitting the snooze this morning, I got up and blew the dust off my yoga mat. I took 10 minutes instead of five, but it was sorely needed. I’m sure I used to be able to touch my toes. Nevertheless, I felt better after just a few minutes.
I spent the majority of the work day in meetings. After chasing and wrestling a squirmy 25-lb kid this evening, another yoga moment was in order. I squeezed in five minutes between putting my two girls to bed.
My shoulders are not yet back in there proper place, but they are on the way.