First, there was biting cold.
Then some snow.
We were beginning to see a pattern.
Repetitive and meditative (if, say, you’re into contemplating a shovel).
“Really, the only thing seeing me through right now is my practice,” Rudy informed me, glumly.
I might have agreed with him, except that he was hogging the yoga mat, sprawled across the center with a chew toy.
Lately, as soon as I motivate myself to do a little yoga, it’s been Rudy’s cue to grab something from the toy box and hunker down. A couple of times it’s gotten rambunctious, and I finally had to tell him to knock it off.
“It’s counterproductive,” I explained.
“I’m trying to get in the zone,” I said patiently (or with what I imagine, in mid March, passes for patience).
“Who’s stopping you?”
“Well you’re not exactly helping…”
“I’m not so sure that’s my role,” he said, flipping a red rubber donut into the air. It landed neatly on my foot.
“This isn’t the time or place for chew toys,” I pointed out.
“And your point?”
“It’s hard to concentrate…”
I was beginning to detect a certain circular motion. The course of our conversation was too reminiscent of our current weather pattern (also circular). Frankly, I wasn’t feeling so kindly disposed to either one.
“My point is, this is my time to be on the mat.”
“Well I don’t have a mat.”
We were both getting peevish. I gave up trying to stretch into Pigeon and rolled onto my back. Rudy sprawled across my stomach. Then settled into the crook of my arm.
It was one of our better moments.
There was almost a measure of peace. We both practiced letting go. Just being. Our own version of Savasana.
“It’s the most difficult pose of all,” he reminded me. “And I’ve pretty much got it mastered.”