My practice at 50 is quite different from what it was at 25 or 35 or even 45. I still love a strong, athletic class that leaves me sweaty, endorphin-infused, and sore the next day. But I no longer have the patience for yoga that isn’t smart, well sequenced, and capable of inspiring me to be more mindful and compassionate with myself. The quality that now defines “authentic yoga” for me is KINDNESS.
If a particular asana practice demands more than feels healthy for my body, if meditation feels punishing rather than joyful, I don’t feel bad about bowing out. I appreciate the discernment developed over the decades that allows me to recognize when an idea or instruction isn’t serving me, and I politely move on. With less to prove, I prefer practices that nurture my capacity for compassion, even tenderness, rather than accomplishment. I look for teachings that inspire curiosity about how things are rather than expectations of how they should be.
Perhaps this is the great gift of growing up, arriving at the true adulthood of middle age. Every day I find myself more willing to let go of “how it’s supposed to be” and more able to celebrate the life I have—this body, this mind, this heart, these life circumstances.
I learned last night that a woman I know, younger than me, is dying of cancer—she has just a few days left on Earth. We aren’t close. M is the mother of my daughter’s childhood friends and also a cherished friend of my good friends, but our lives only just overlapped. Never mind that now. She—a gorgeous mother of two adolescent girls, an artist, a healer, a source of wisdom and grace in her community—has brought all the strength and courage one can to the frightening and unknowable terrain that is cancer. And now her time here is up.
The news hit me forcefully, a walloping reminder that life is fragile. We live amidst the unexpected and unknowable. We are invited to dream, compelled to take action, inspired at times to make heroic efforts, but even our purest intentions and fiercest determination guarantee nothing. We are not in control.
Surging with love and compassion for this woman I barely know, I think how upsetting this news will be to my daughter, which is a tiny proxy for sensing how M’s death will affect her daughters. I don’t want to imagine saying a final goodbye to my own daughter, to my beloved husband, to drinking in the crisp mountain air or the salty ocean breeze, to spotting a fox or a dolphin, to those moments when my heart pulses with love for all beings. I know that this almost-friend of mine doesn’t want to imagine any of this either, but she is embracing it because she must. This is what is being asked of her and she is strong and loving and giving herself to the experience in the most righteous way she can.
The only remedy for the grief I feel is to stop and appreciate my own imperfect life. There is so much that hasn’t worked out the way I would have liked and yet, here I am—alive, healthy, and loved.
This is the attitude I want to cultivate in my yoga practice. I don’t want to spend another moment berating myself for not being more or doing better. It feels far more valuable to spend the moments I have enjoying and appreciating all that I am and do and have—and yes, moving purposefully toward giving more of myself to the experiences life presents. I’m not asking for my practice to be easy, just to encourage me to meet what comes with kindness. (September 2016)