Times have changed and times are strange; here I come, but I ain’t the same. ~ Mama, I’m Coming Home, Ozzy Osbourne
I’m on my porch, three flights up from the brick courtyard below, flitting back and forth on my mat like one of the birds in the treetops alongside me.
This is where I’ve been for much of the spring, summer and fall, practicing yoga whenever the weather’s been nice enough, and sometimes even when it hasn’t. Up here I feel as if I’m someplace else, somewhere other than inside my house, which is pretty much where I’ve been ever since the pandemic hit.
I remember it was a Friday, the day of the week when I would usually work from home. Up before dawn, I was preparing for morning yoga and chatting with my friend in Europe. We'd met in yoga teacher training, and it seems we’ve been in one long conversation ever since. That morning we were discussing the impending lockdowns, and he was exclaiming how he'd already been home for three whole days! At the time, three days sounded like an eternity, but I remember thinking that I might not be so far behind. In fact, just the night before I’d doubled back to the office. I’d left my raincoat, and something was telling me that I might not be back anytime soon to retrieve it.
And that’s exactly what happened. That Friday turned out to be my first day home, and by the end of that weekend I’d already done my three days. Very quickly after that, those three days turned into three weeks, and then those three weeks turned into three months! And now it’s been three seasons since that fateful Friday; but today, from my perch on the porch, time finally seems to have stood still. I’m on my mat and so high up that all I can see are the treetops, green against the bluest sky. A single, white cloud floats by. I watch it as it shifts its shape. Like me, it’s reaching and folding from one form to the next, as if it, too, is practicing on slow deep breaths.
At first, the idea of staying home was a bit startling, and at night I would find it especially strange. That’s when the day’s distractions would end, and the enormity of what was happening would land. Those were the nights when I would finally climb into bed and make sure that all my prayers were said.
But the days were another story. In no time at all, the homebody in me burst onto the scene. Right away, my kitchen became my office; the porch and center hallway my yoga studios, and from inside my television room I taught my Sunday yoga class on Zoom. And then, in the late afternoons, I would take long, meandering walks. And if I couldn’t make it outside, then I would walk later in the evening, when the sun was about to set, but it wasn’t quite nighttime yet. There was a new rhythm to the days, and I have to say I liked it.
Truthfully, I’ve always been more of a homebody. I’ve always been good at cozying up and even better at hunkering down. In fact, at one point, I was so good at hunkering down that I might as well have been home even when I wasn’t, but that was before yoga. Once I discovered yoga, my mat became like a mobile home, and I willingly let it drive me out of my comfort zone. Over time, I found the practice making me stronger and more connected than ever before, and soon I was practicing all over the city, at ease in places I never dreamt I would be and in neighborhoods that became like second homes to me.
Today on the porch a slight breeze blows in through the screens. It’s so airy and bright up here, but for some reason I find myself missing the heat and thinking back to when I was at the hot studio last. It had been before the pandemic arrived, and I can still remember the drive. I had just turned onto my favorite cobblestone street, the one with the trolley tracks that used to run through the city. I remember passing a few precious parking spots, so that I could turn onto the next block. It had been a risky move, because while the turn brought me closer to the studio, it also merged me with the stampede of cars in their nightly charge toward the bridge at the bottom of the hill. Already I could see their tails flickering red in the backup ahead, with exhaust rising like dust from their heels.
Luckily, I found a good spot within that next block, and so I broke from the herd and parked. I turned off the car, opened the hatch and stepped around back to survey all that I’d packed. I’d pack so much that I could easily have been on the road for days! Let’s just say that after a few years of practicing out and about, I'd learned to pack a little more than I might need. Over the years, I’d lost two shirts and one dress; practiced in the instructor’s pants because I’d arrived without any of my own, and once had to dash across the street in Samasthiti to purchase a missing sports bra.
I threw a bag of clothes over one shoulder, hoisted my mat over the other, and then stopped to consider my coat. It was tucked in the way back as if taking a nap, and for good reason, too. I remember the weather had been playing tricks on us that week, and most days had been too warm for its wear. But I knew that later that evening the temperatures were supposed to dip, and so I lifted it from its slumber to have with me for the return trip.
The lampposts had already greeted the evening, and I waded through pools of light that splashed across the sidewalk, as I made my way to the studio. From where I parked, it was only a few blocks’ walk and another moment’s stop at the corner of a busy intersection. There, I waited as the cars jockeyed for position, until it was my turn to cross. In every direction, townhomes lined the streets like soldiers. They stood shoulder to shoulder, their windows lit like watchful eyes, overseeing the evening’s activity. Several were still dressed in their Christmas best, even though it was well past New Year’s, and some were proudly pinned with stars.
I remember learning all about these stars when I was in grade school. They were made of iron, and I learned that they were more than just décor. In fact, they were the endpoints of the rods that ran through many of these houses like the bones in our bodies. And just like our own bones, their job was to shore up their structures for as long as time would allow. And for many of these homes, that had already been for a long time now. For this neighborhood was quite old, but with the help of special laws to prevent falling stars, its constellation had remained well intact. And to me there was something magical about that. Whenever I was here, I could sense a lingering history, and what I’d come to think of as the neighborhood’s original energy.
And there was something about this energy that drew me. I could feel it under my feet as I walked down the street, and it felt familiar in a way that made everything around me feel familiar, too. Something in my bones seemed to recognize these cobblestones and homes, the little gardens and gates, and even the river at the bottom of the hill! And I felt anchored by this. It made me feel as if somehow I had long belonged, and for this reason I would have kept happily on, but I’d already arrived at the studio.
The studio spanned most of the block with welcoming lights strung from its rooftop. Its windows were all fogged up, but still I couldn’t resist a blurry peek inside. I spied several yogis rolling up their mats, and the practice room being readied for what would be the next class. The little red front door opened, and several yogis spilled out, sweaty from the class before. One of them stepped aside to let me in, and this is about where my memory of the evening ends. I can’t seem to remember much more, aside from a warm welcome and someone asking, “What can I get for you, Anne?”
And now it’s been all of three seasons since then, and I’m on my porch, practicing in the breeze and wondering how it could be that I’m missing the heat; but, it’s not long before I have my answer. As I continue to practice, I feel a certain energy under my feet, the same as I did when I walked down that street! And not only that. Once I become aware, this energy is suddenly everywhere! All at once, it’s in the sky and with the birds and on the breeze and even in that cloud. And I feel anchored again, as if I’m a part of all of it, and that’s when I know it must be in me, too.
And who knows, maybe this energy has always been in me. And if that’s the case, then I think it might have something to do with how I found this practice in the first place. For practicing yoga was never a conscious intention. Rather, I would say that one day something in me knew that it was time to begin again, and then that same something made yoga a part of its plan. And ever since then, the practice has been as much of a guide as it has been a form of exercise. Over the years, to my surprise, yoga has helped me substantially. It’s helped me to parse my history and learn to cope with various uncertainties. It’s also taught me how to let things be and, remarkably, it’s returned my faith to me. And now, incredibly, I find it’s what’s sustaining me during a pandemic!
I imagine that today will be my last day practicing on the porch for a while. Next week the temperatures are supposed to dip again and soon after that another season will begin. And that’s when I’ll have to move my practice back inside, and then I’ll try to write about what this year has been like. And when I do, I’ll surprise myself when I set out to write about missing the heat and find that my words are instead about energy! I’ll find myself writing how this energy was with me when I was out and about, and how it later followed me back into the house. And then I’ll write how sometimes, when I would pay close attention, I could catch a glimpse of its constellation and realize that I was a part of it.
But the words aren’t with me just yet, and for now I’m on the porch, finishing my practice. I lie back in Savasana for my final rest and place my arms by my side and splay my feet out wide. And then, right before I close my eyes, I decide to take one more look up at the sky. It’s as blue as it ever was, only now it’s empty. That cloud is gone, and the breeze has stilled and even the birds have quieted. All is calm now; nothing is missing, not even the heat. It’s time to close my eyes, and when I do, I feel the peace inside. I feel it settle in my bones and wrap me in the energy of home.