A few months ago a Yoga teacher asked me if I could make some space in the house that’s exclusive to my practice.
I fidgeted. “Not really.” My living room Yoga studio, (now the the kids play room) has always been my practice space.
“At least for your Pranayama practice.”
We have a spare room; the door doesn’t fit correctly. When it’s shut, it takes pulling the door up in its frame with a huff, and a strong push to get it to open. I slipped into that room for my Pranayama practice this morning, as I’ve been doing of late.
“Mama, mama,” bang, bang, push and shove, “Mama, waaah.” I finish my round.
“I’m doing my Pranayama Leila. I’ll be out in a few minutes ok?”
A few minutes later. “Leila mama, waaaah” Bang. Push. Shove.
A little later. Push, push, push.
She wraps her arms around my neck, and hangs on. “Leila mama, TV. La la la la la la.” (Interpretation: Leila’s mama, I want to watch The Smurfs on the TV next to your head. Right now.)
I continue with my practice. She insists. I sit her in my lap, cross legged, and tell her to do some Pranayama. We buzz like bees together for a few seconds. She jumps up and leans into me. “TV mama, TV, aaaaah.”
I don’t open my eyes, don’t budge. “Mama, mama, aaaaaah.” Fake cry.
I’m proud of myself for not getting frustrated.
“TV, mama.” She slows down her movements, lingers for a minute or two, then whispers “bye,” and walks out of the room.
I’m glad I didn’t just put on her DVD and continue in another room.
Eyes still closed, I sit silently for a few minutes.
I put on her DVD and lie down on the bed. She lies next to me. Still, for a minute.