practice

I know why students revere their yoga teachers.

"People think we do magic," James says, watching approvingly as I kick my legs over my head into halasana.

But he knows, and I know, it's something else.

"Practice," he says.  "That's all."

Six months ago I couldn't do this.  And if it were not for James, I would never be able to do any of what we are doing during today's two-hour private, as he puts me through a sequence created by B.K.S. Iyengar to create "emotional stability."

I don't think about what I can't do.  I barely remember that once I had a fear of backbends, that for fifteen years my back could hardly bend in any direction, and that hanging upside down is (truly) the most relaxing position imaginable.

What if I were still gripped by pain and fear?  How would I reach my natural state of emotional ease?

I could not.  And this is why James and his teachers deserve awe and reverence (though they would brush aside any of this).  Because they're not showing us magic, but teaching us a practice for life.

Not that magic doesn't tempt.  As I drive home, I still have microseconds of fantasy.  When I open the door, Rich will be dressed in tie and braces, walking briskly, going to work, all energy and brilliance...no.

"I fell," he says, leaning on his four-legged cane.  "I was on the floor for thirty minutes."

And he took one of his pills at the wrong time.

He's fuzzy, and getting fuzzier.  This is what chordoma does.

I couldn't imagine any of this six months ago.  Rich couldn't, either.

But we're practicing.

Candace