Breathe

I practice yoga this morning in a gym with 400 people.  My teacher from India, is the son of the founder of Ashtanga yoga.  After chanting, I dedicate my practice to you and think about you. One time, I practiced yoga on the slate floor in our foyer when you walked through on your way to the kitchen.  I was bending forward. “Oh! I wish I could do that!” you said, walking past me. “Good for the back!”

Today is Sunday and 400 of us are saluting the sun. The still dark sun.

“Breathe with sound,” the teacher says.  Everyone inhales deeply and it’s as if we are gathering all the air. The exhale rushes out of each of us, low and guttural, the way wind swirls through a forest before a storm.

I focus on you, Dad. I focus on the breathing. I think about how much I miss your voice, loud and strong, sailing through our house. You were the storm. You were the breath. Your footsteps steady as the heart. Your presence everywhere.

Five months and we are doing our best to move forward, to push through this desire to sit on the couch, not moving, not thinking, not being.

It has changed, but it’s not better. It’s different.

My teacher tells us breath purifies body. “You breathe in positive energy. You exhale negativity. In this way you cleanse the body.” He tells us breathing is good for healing respiratory infection, allergies and stress. “If you have boyfriend, girlfriend, spouse who stress you, breathe.”

Is this stress?

I am back in the world, a little less awkward, a little more present. I have returned to the body. I am eating healthy and I’ve come back to my yoga mat.

We have practiced four days so far, waking at 4:45, preparing to be on this mat at 6:30.

Some mornings it is so difficult to wake up. To move. The body so heavy. I want to close my eyes.

I inhale long and slow.  I imagine positive energy entering my body, coursing through my limbs.  I exhale and squeeze all that is bad out of me. Breathing is easy in some poses.  But there are others where I am twisted like a pretzel and the breathing is a chore.  I shortchange the inhale. I push out air during the exhale. Rid myself of all this malaise.

The teacher catches us not paying attention when we move before he speaks. When we inhale rather than exhale. When stillness is just a word.

So I breathe. And then I remember you, Dad. How during those last nine days, your breathing was labored. How there were moments when you stopped. Just stopped. When stillness meant you were tempting death to come.The last day when breathing was not the steady internal whirlwind we take for granted, your breathing sounded painful.  You hiccuped air. You spat wind. You held your breath. And when the time came, how easy it was, how quiet the breath, the letting go. Five months, Daddio. How I miss you. How I dedicate today’s practice to you.