Once upon a time there was a guy who would neatly roll out his green mat each day, take a moment to gaze at his toes, feel the air between his fingers, and treasure the breath that marked the beginning of movement as observation.
Stepping, reaching, circling to his inner promptings, he felt the vibrancy of each precious moment unconstrained by the expectations of a systematic mind, and unhindered by the progress.
Fluidly ascending and descending, he swerved, rolled in reverence at his being breathing now, waving to the beat of his own drum. Life flowed effortlessly through his unexpectant lens, his body a vessel that conveyed what is without imposition of what was or should be, only fuelled by the power of observation.
This guy didn’t practise, he was yoga.
By Charlene McAuley