I used to be a love poet.
For years I wrote and performed about love, on the blog I kept for seven years and in the one-woman show I created.
I wrote about longing, loss, and desire. About disappointment, endings, and hopeful beginnings. I laid myself bare on the page and on the stage.
I felt so much, so deeply. I was a wounded heart, suspended on the line.
In 2006, I went on my first Vipassana retreat, a week of silent meditation, and learned about metta practice. I learned to sit on my cushion and send loving kindness to those near and far, to those I knew and did not know, to my darlings, to the difficult. I learned that loving is a process of showing up with an open heart.
Today makes ninety days of my yoga practice. Of getting on my mat, every day. Of honoring my commitment to myself. Of being present and seeing what that offers.
I am learning more about yoga beyond the asanas. About the union of mind, body, and spirit and what that means. About who I am, on and off the mat. Reconnecting with meditation and metta practice, and taking the time to be still.
I am flawed. We all are.
And yet, I love. We love.
It is a perfect practice, one that begins with having compassion for ourselves.
One moment at a time.