Yawning Us Awake Greatness

We the manifestation of our dreams destination connected to stars shooting having string attached to this wet globe with earth patches our consciousness gives conscious decision for the world to turn lifting dust from our pasts ashes and spreading to lungs of fellow three from the sun planet dwellers and starship sailors we haven't met because they know we're not ready our breath will continue into the next decade century millennia as breath of someone far from us now but feels where we've been that extra inhale of air taken every once in a while when the sunrise is seen and the past crosses the mind like morning birds across the sky we're the determination of cells and DNA to be more than human Morse Code and scribbled symbols to define the origin of our skin holding infinity within our souls rolling over during sleep before standing in the morning yawning us awake greatness where we are so continue to be. 

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The Darkness Spoke Nightmares, The Light gave me Dreams

I.

The darkness spoke so loudly I could barely think myself.

The familiar sound of its faithless taunt

Reverberated between my eyes.

A serpent’s tongue before the strike

Stalking my mousy shine

The darkness spoke nightmares behind my lids.

No shutting my eyes for daydreams.

My morning sandman had gotten all wet

Muddy and swamp like, my new boogeyman.

The darkness spoke an identical rhythm.

Calling on my frequency.

“Stay down my dear. Why try to get up?”

The darkness spoke with my voice.

II.

The light opened my eyes with truthful words,

“Why close your eyes? You cannot see.

Purpose and possibility should be looked at closely.”

The light gave me my dreams in a crystal wind chime

Forever to jingle beautifully the sounds of my passion

Reflecting the sun with blinding brilliance

Making lovely the teardrops on rainy days.

The light took my hands and danced with me.

We kicked the dust of dried up baggage.

“Breathe your limbs exhausted triumph.

Water your plants. This is life.”

III.

The darkness SPOKE.

The light didn’t listen.

image from www.examimer.com

The darkness Spoke.

The light didn’t hear.

The darkness… spoke.

No one was there.

I saw a tree and decided to climb

The light widely smiled, then joined me.

~Writer Yogi (Chelle) 

Weekly Updates (October 9)

In case you missed it, here are my weekly updates!

Body Talk: Yoga makes a mouth of it to share my truth.Free as a baby’s imagination. Let its flexing tell my story without ink...more Here 

Nursery Yoga: Circles and Squares: This square, my doing what I am not meant to do, is wedged in this round area. The space cut out for me to live my passions, dreams and my calling. What to do with something crammed in a space that it won't get out of? Change,its size and shape!...more Here

Medusa's Eye's: Being paralyzed by fear: “Do not look directly at it!” are the shouts you can hear from a gang of warriors attempting to slay the monster Medusa.One look at this dreadful creature in the eyes and you turn to stone. Snake haired and mortal hating, she was a force to reckon with.Thinking of accomplishing a major goal makes me think of Medusa. If we look directly at what we’re  trying to change it’s almost like turning to stone. We begin to freeze up, the mind goes blank and we’re stuck forever looking forward and never going anywhere. The fear, Medusa’s eyes, have us paralyzed...more Here 

Yogic Prayer: Sometimes it's anger, sometimes it's tears, other times its complete joy, or the feeling of what it's like to be a soul. In the ends it's one thing...more Here

Body Talk (Poem)

image from ashtangayogameditation.blogspot.com

Yoga makes a mouth of it to share my truth.

Free as a baby’s imagination

Let its flexing tell my story without ink.

As reaching fingers in a sun salutation grab at air

Forming my intention.

My most back (bending) and forward (folding)

Negativity sweats out of my pores.

In Warrior I my thighs yawn widely the details.

Without practice, my tongue is still as a lost child in a great cave.

What really comes of a mouth that hangs open and shut

As a broken door on well-oiled hinges?

Ah, how the heart unfurls like secret flowers.

What passion it expels

As the body begins to feel wispy in a vinyasa ballet.

By savasana, there’s no need for verbal words.

The body has said it all. 

My Writing Arm: Poem of a proposed future

This morning before I got out of bed,I got an urge to do something I don't believe I've ever wanted to do on my own. I wanted to visit a grave. Your grave. I've never wanted to visit any cemetery really because the dead rest there. Today was different. 

I wanted to go to your grave. Brush the dirt and grass from your name and read it. Feeling the cool sensation of your earthly title and years. I wanted to sit on the grass where you are and cry because you are so close and yet so far. How far I have no idea and that hurts a little more. 

As I laid in bed weeping, I wondered how it could still hurt after almost 20 years. How I can still miss you with the few precious memories I've got. The thought crossed my mind if I could give my writing arm, not just my hand, my arm, it would probably be worth a prosthetic and learning lefty for a while to see you. 


To have you show up at the door of my grandmother's house. Thanksgiving when all of us usually are there. You'd recognize me I think because my hair is the same as when you first saw me. An afro. Only I'm not so small and chubby with a green felt dress and shiny black baby shoes. And those socks with the lace. I'm big now. 

What did you call me? What would you call me? Rachelle or The Baby? Either one would do. You'd be speaking and I'd hear the sound of a voice forgotten. It would sound strange and I'd immediately find all to love in it. 

I'd even sit on your lap like when I was small. Yeah, you'd bring your chair. And when you pulled the level I'd still laugh. Perhaps harder now. 

You'd see a medium small dog run up to you enthusiastically and probably ask why it isn't outside. And what's wrong with him when you put the dog out. He's too old not to know how to lift his leg when he pee's. Sandy,your older granddaughter, my cousin, would probably be the one to say, "Grandfather. That's Gigi. She's a girl and is more of a house dog." Then you would do what I know you did and don't really remember and call my grandmother."BIIIIILL!!" And we'd all laugh as you fussed about this girl dog and it not being outside where it belonged and what is a Gigi?  

There would be children running around. More than you remember 20 years ago. And one of them isn't me. Two boys from Sandy and a girl and another girl on the way from Ramsey. Poor Dear Grandfather. You're probably wondering how they got it all wrong. Two girls can't carry on the Smith name. Then you'd love them anyway wouldn't you? Like you loved me. 

Perhaps wondering who the white kids really were. Yes, those are Sandy's. She's just always been light like this side of the family and the white man cooking delicious healthy food is her husband and we love them all. You may not understand it all. You'd love them anyway. 

Then I'd tell you everything whether you understood it or not.
My blog. A what? Oh you're a writer huh?
I'm married. You'd wonder where your shot gun was. Got rid of it? The b-b gun too? Damnit Bill. Not even a male dog that can lift it's leg. 
He's a vegetarian and I've thought about it too. A what? No meat? This 2012 stuff is pretty liberal.
And I'd even tell you about yoga and how it's changed my life. No I'm not a hippy. Yoga? So you work out? You look good. 

I can hear you wondering aloud about our clothes and the small bright things that make noise and everyone is touching all day. The great grandbaby's are playing and shouting and Grandmother uses a cane now. The house is almost a new thing but much is still the same. You built it with your own hands and of course your family still lives where they belong right? Your work is solid. You always knew it. 

The head of the table would be yours and Ramsey on the other. Grandmother and Mom to your flanks and me by mom. And I'd stare at you. What we expected, you wonder about this health food and why Sandy's husband, a man, did 99% of the cooking. You'd eat and maybe like it or not and you'd complain and fuss at my grandmother "Bill" and we'd laugh to crying and back again.

Later after dinner while there are naps, walks, work and play, I'd touch your face. See how much I'd remember or forgotten and if the photos captured you right. I'd touch your salt and pepper hair because I'm curious about the texture. What did your eyes see in me then and what do they see now? Yes,the little girl is in there,but she's big now. 

Isn't she? Or am I always the baby? I don't care either way. Your flannel shirt is familiar. Your chair feels familiar and your arms have grown bigger and my hands much smaller. I'm resting in your lap in a felt dress with lace socks and shiny black shoes while we both breathe in the memory of then and now. Have they become the same? Are you proud? Do you love me Grandfather? Eyes open again and we smile. 

Now you have to go. Everyone hugs you. There's no time limit. I would go last, since I'm losing an arm but I can't deny the best for my Grandmother. I hug you softly. With strength. Shake with tears falling from confusion, sorrow and happiness. And I stare at your face. Etching you into my memory like the name and years on your grave. I'll remember the flannel. Your face, hair, eyes. Your smell. When you say you love me, The Baby, I'll rewind and replay however you say it until it's a part of my brain chemistry. 

You would hug your wife. Tell her she's doing pretty good, you guess, considering your not there. Do something about that dog or get another one too. You used to have a couple dogs at a time. You'd probably wonder how she's gotten on without a man. Mom too. Must be that 2012 thing. Not even a shot gun. 

Then we'd see your last facial expressions of confusion of what you'd come back to.

Internet, cell phone, Vegetarian, Blog, girl dog, Yoga, mixed kids, no Smith boys. No shot gun. Mom's not married. The baby's not small, Bill lives half alone. 

Then you'd smile, not minding what you didn't understand (as much) and be glad. 

Ramsey has a wife and two great grandbaby girls, Sandy has a husband and two great grandbaby boys. Mom is doing well and your only living child, you'll see your son Jim when you got back. The girl dog's got a good bark. You'll give her that. Bill's always your Bill. She looks good in her old age. Got all her mind which you may not remember losing. You've got a solid wife. And my husband. A real and dedicated man. And me. The Baby. The writer and does/is a Yoga? She's a healthy and smart baby. With all that hair and the big smile. 

You'd leave happy and with your last demands as the man in charge. We'd all laugh and nod and love you more than we can physically express. The same will go for you and the tears we show on the outside will fill up your inside, with your own, even though you don't say. We know. I know. You love us so much more. 

Then I'd say good-bye to my arm. My writing hand. I'd be sad and take it to memory as the one I've gotten in trade for it. I got a great bargain I'd say. And I'd come to your grave again. And lay on the grass. You're so close and so far. I know how far you are away now. Never too far. 

You can hear me can't you? My tears are filling you up so you'll never dry out. Our tears are our thoughts and love to you. You'll never dry out. 

I'll write you again with my left hand or  my new one. And you'll love it. Like you love me right? 

The Baby with the afro, green dress with lace socks and shiny shoes. 

I Love You. And you can hear me. I just don't know which wind or frequency to listen back for you on. I'll keep writing and trying to hear. 

You love me too Grandfather don't you? 

My memories, imagined into reality and lived into imagination say yes. 

Love,

The Baby



~WY

What Tears Are These?: True Story

I respect my body and my journey.

When I thought that up for my mantra, I don't even think I completely knew what it meant. I knew, but the depth wasn't there. I knew I wanted to focus on my goal for better health and patience on my journey through yoga and properly following my calling in life. Okay, I'll go with it.

I was holding my mala. Rubbing each uncultured pearl in my right pointer finger and thumb. Then my left. Switching between the two. At first just going through the motions. 

One, two, three.....
Sixteen, seventeen....
Thirty Seven, Thrity Eight, Thrity Nine....

I respect my body and my journey. I respect my body and my journey. Have I reached the middle of the strand? I don't want to miss one pearl. 

Uneven and smooth in my fingers.I respect my body and my journey. Again and again and again until I made the choice to use the mala for what it was for. 

I'm going to put this mantra into my mala. I will put my energy into every pearl so it can't forget. It will forever hold this energy and mantra as the foundation of its power. I respect my body and my journey.

Fifty One,
Fifty Two... Fifty Two,
Fifty Three,
Fifty Two,
Fifty Three,
Fifty Four... Fifty Four... Fifty Four....

I wasn't counting anymore. I was trying to feel the pearls at the end and repeated some. There wasn't enough to move on and I didn't want to go back to where I was. So I grabbed the whole mala in my hands. Clutching them like a baby blanket from years passed. 

I respect my body and my journey. Why am I crying? What tears are these? Is it because this has turned into a prayer? 

Just below room temperature and the size of  dew drops. I can't bend my mala to fit completely in my hands like warm stones from beach sand. So I clutch and rotate. 

I respect my body and my journey. I respect my body and my journey. I won't stop until this trinket has all the energy I have to give it. I will build a foundation of good energy. This will be the beginning of all that is good for me. I will leave my prayer here and I can always come back for it later. Then add more.I respect my body and my journey. Tears to chin. I respect my body and my journey. Tears to t-shirt. I respect my body and my journey. I respect my body and my journey. 

I finish with a Namaste to the yogis before me for passing on the practice, Namaste to the universe, Namaste to myself for being brave enough to practice and meditate. Who knew it would turn into a prayer? 

~WY

Confessions Of A Writer Yogi

I confess when I couldn't remember my dreams upon waking for some months, I worried they may have forgotten themselves.

I confess I love perfect strangers because I believe everyone should be loved for the simple reason they exist. Nothing more. 

I confess I want you to like me and hope you do in the way I am for I refuse to change for anyone. 

I confess I want you to see me with your eyes wondering into my words asking, "How have they come from her there?" 

I confess I rather touch you with hands dirty from loves work than  cleanly protected from connection.

I confess love should be scattered through the streets like confetti at Mardi Gras. 

I confess I want us to plant trees growing older than we ever can to carry our lives into other futures. 

I confess I don't really know where I am going but I'd rather walk forward trying to find direction then stay where I am. 

I confess the universe has a way of helping connecting the dots once you get a pencil and start drawing the line. 

I confess opening your heart to absolutely everyone will give you the chance to make everyone your family. 

I confess my hands were my favorite part of my body until my current position has them scratched, scared and calloused. It scares me. 

I confess I recognize I have a couple crooked teeth and still grin wider getting compliments on my smile. 

I confess my hair does what it wants, making it an interesting mystery and I wish I was more like it. 

I confess I am not perfect. If someone was to offer me the chance to be perfect, I would laugh with my whole body asking "Don't you see the perfection in my slanted lines?" 

I confess I aspire to be a 
long haired
loving
liberal
green tea drinking
less meat eating
crazed dancing
chocolate eating
poetry breathing
erotic novel reading
young eyed
old soul
exploratory 
Ashtanga Yogi.

And That's When The World Will Begin. 


Namaste my friends,
~Chelle aka Writer Yogi 

POETRY From Writer Yogi

I thought I would make a blog post of all the poetry I have posted for the year so far, so it can be in one place for people! They are all listed below as links. Please feel free to comment on the posts themselves or on my Facebook page. I want to eventually come out with a poetry collection so I'd love to hear your feedback! Much Love to You All xoxo 

image by dumais.com

Inside Out

Dreaming in Paris: To and Inspired by Jennifer Pastiloff 

The Day's Movement

Today

Jellied Fingers

Head Back Hair Dancing

Dear Soul

Coloring Outside The Lines 

The Mat

Dear Stranger, I Love You 


Namaste My Friends,

Chelle aka Writer Yogi 

Dear Stranger, I Love You

Dear Stranger,
I Love You. I know you are walking down the street and I will never see you again in my life beyond this passing, but know what I say is true. I love you because you have breath.  You are like me, small on this mossy rock called earth spinning on an axis tilted because even the world knows you can't truly see something for what it really is head on. I love you because you are not like me as well. You see the world and move through it in ways that I will never do and I am amazed and respect you for that. I love you stranger because if I love you, there is a better chance I will reach to you as a friend instead of an enemy.

Dear Stranger,
I love you because in doing so, I can stretch my affection further than warm taffy and solidify my acceptance of whatever is in you stronger than fresh marble. By sharing my love beyond it's limits, removing the false reality of difference between our lives, it roots like eager seeds and grows uncontrollably. Even more vast than fairytale beanstalks this love. It will never shrink and die or be cut. It's grown to high and large , it touches the sun. How can the dark reach it there?

Dear Stranger,
My love for you can be considered illogical. Perhaps it is. I do not know you. You do not know me. How do I know if you are good or bad? That is where the true love comes in. I don't care who you are. My definition of love is acceptance and respect. There is nothing I can do about where you have been in life and unless we happen to meet face to face beyond our passing, I cannot effect your future. And that's okay. Love is the best "just because".

Dear Stranger,
I Love You. Why? Because you exist. And that's all the reason I need.

Dreaming In Paris: Poem To and Inspired by Jennifer Pastiloff

I'm sitting at a mustard linen table in Paris.

Someone speaks.

I barely hear a whisper.

Today is not the day to care about what I can't or don't.

I've practiced among fellow life lovers.

Those who fearfully dance to music only to release worry through

Flailing arms, shaking hands, pointed feet and hair leaping without care.

How perfectly imperfect the dancing was that manifested such joy.

This day is to be in wonder of small things usually unnoticed.

Making life feel larger than sighing stars about to die in another solar system.

The soft air in morning that makes me laugh

Like it was raining feathers from heavens bedspreads

When tossed by dawn’s prayers.

My wine tastes like this flower unfolding on the table.

Bold. As it buds orange petals sweetly to summer air.

Leaning back in my metal chair I feel the universes "Om" underneath my skin.

I spread my arms not to miss greatness causing goosebumps under sundrenched flesh.

The waiter asks with bored lips, "Are you alright?"

I gaze at him wondering how he doesn't taste the strawberry sugared breeze

Where children with innocent pink lollipop fingers have unleashed a thousand hopeful dreams.

I laughed and said, "Of course! I am happy. Why wouldn't I be? Now pour me another glass of wine."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Last line are words by Jennifer Pastiloff herself. I read that line and went, "Got to write about it!"  Jen, you're really inspiring, sweet and I appreciate how open and honest you are in sharing your experiences with us! You are only yourself and I Love that so much. I hope all enjoyed.

Until next time my friends, Namaste,

~Chelle aka Writer Yogi 

Fun Friday: Jellied Fingers (poem)

Time clocks and writers block turn my rational inward

I fidget in my stripped socks afraid and curious.

I’ll escape the cherry ripe monotony

By tripping

Oh so purposely

Into the rabbit hole.

There’s music at the bottom

Turning my sanity inside out.

With singing about twinkling bats and skyward tea trays.

I join the mad dancing among alabaster plates to stay insane.

I’ve come to the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party

To celebrate newfound fanciful madness.

“Why is a Raven like a writing desk?” He asks.

I respond, “They both allow the spreading of wings.”

I write my words in butter so they’ll read more smoothly.

Why not?

We’re trying the same for our time stopped watches.

And glue the book binding with jam

So when my reader turns the page with jellied fingers

The words will stick.

Hold a pointer to your tongue my Wonderland reader.

Taste the sweetness of my words.

I realized I never posted this! A great day to post something wonderland and fun! Have a great Friday! 

Namaste my friends

~Writer Yogi 

Words For Wednesday: Un-Squinch Your Eyes (Audio)

Audio of myself reading my newest poem. Enjoy! Xoxo 

~Writer Yogi 

Dear Soul

It’s time to change you light bulb

and looking through the keyhole

I see it flutter like a drunken butterfly

from only a few months of burning.

Abandoned Sci-Fi books lay disordered on the floor

next to a disheveled particle board bookcase.

While aesthetic projects with eclectic potential are sprawled on a lonely desk.

Half cut and never pasted.

Paint breaks away from the wall giving it

sick blotch spots on its jaundice face.

I tried the door knob and it refused to twist

As a faint memory came of me swallowing the key with thoughtless intention.

Tasted like rhubarb and honey.

Picking the lock with a pen was close but failed.

I pounded the door, kicked, to no response.

Giving up, I fell to my knees like a kid having a tantrum.

My heart, as meek as your glow, came to a rest on the keyhole.

Arms up like an arrest on the door from rejection

You got me.

I couldn’t break in.

Why should I have to if it’s mine?

It’s better to surrender.

The door opened after aggression became affection

And I wept like I won something.

For the forgotten room is you, my soul.

I’ll finish cutting and glue together my puzzle pieces of artwork.

Put the books on the to-read shelf and remember there is always room for more.

More to have and even more to give.

It’s time to change your light bulb to energy saving.

And redecorate.

No doors included. 


~Writer Yogi

Words For Wednesday: Head Back Hair Dancing

Head Back Hair Dancing 

The woman I really am is a familiar stranger on the street.

We walk by each other

Shoulders

Oh…so…close…

And just

               miss

We turn our heads back,

Almost sure we know each other.

Like two lovers in slow motion

Gazing to the other side of the crosswalk at rush hour.

One day, I’ll stop her and say

“We haven’t met each other, but God we belong together.”

And with her head back and hair dancing

I’m embraced in her laughter

As she asks,

“What took you so long?”

~Writer Yogi

Rumi Of The Day

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.

Don't go back to sleep.

You must ask for what you really want.

Don't go back to sleep.

People are going back and forth across the doorsill

where the two worlds touch.

The door is round and open.

Don't go back to sleep.

From "The Essential Rumi" by Coleman Barks

I think this one speaks for itself! The morning is a good thing. Embrace it, go for what you want and don't turn back. Don't go back to sleep! Remember the mantra of the week incase you do! It's never too late to start over.

Namaste my friends,

~Writer Yogi

Equal Parts Science and Magic - Anis Mojgani

Anis Mojgani has a way with words that is absolutely heart expanding and mind blowing.  His words really touch me when he speaks.  I hope it does the same for you.


xoxo,


~Writer Yogi 

Coloring Outside the Lines

The poem  below "Tall Grass", came from my thoughts on having a "real" job. Doing what you your "supposed" to do to live life.  The jobs to get by, to pay rent.  Thinking inside of societies construct of success and what it would be like to think outside of it. To Live outside of it. 

You want to know why kids start off coloring outside the lines?  Because they know no boundaries! Their freedom and imagination are nearly endless and too big for the black lines, or (even the paper if they go beyond that).  Staying neatly inside the lines, doesn't make it art.  Just because you can hold a money making job, doesn't mean thats the right way to live.  If that does happen to be your path, I hope it makes you happy. For those like me... Here's to living a life of art, poetry, community and creativity! 

Tall Grass

Let us step forward into the nappy forest.

More episodic with every step.

You call this land unsightly

I call it independent.

You call dandelions weeds

I call them yellow flowers.

You call the coastal redwood old and its towering height unnatural

I call it wise and the size of my dreams.

“Look at the tall grass.  Wild and unmanageable.”

“Yes the grass is long and tangled,

It’s determined to one day reach the sun. Can you think as big?”

Your solid path is hard and unforgiving.

The grass gives way underneath my feet.

Your realities pavement is stiff, pushing back.

The grass lifts me on its back like a kid sister.

The grey road soaks up water, pretending it wasn’t there.

The grass shares its tears openly in the rain.

You’re ready go to your concrete reality.

“You still haven’t seen the forest yet.” I plead,

“Won’t you color outside the lines with me?” 

A Simple Thought

Image from dopodomani.me/festival-of-dolls-day/

If I can, You can.

Hold my hand and 

We Can Together. 

Inside Out

(image from newfbcovers)
Be everything, especially Victorious.

This is a poem I wrote a couple years ago for my capstone.  It is in a collection of poems that I want to be a book some day. Well, we will see on that. My inspiration has changed but it is still a great poem.  It came into my mind because when I wrote this, I was not practicing yoga.  Now that I am, it seems to relate to a yogi's life also.  Finding what is inside and letting it all out. Letting it out creatively, beautifully, strongly, passionately. Thinking about things differently.  

What is inside of you, don't hold it back, do not be afraid of it! (I am preacher, choir, and congregation to myself as well right now). That's your Greatness going through Fear and Doubt's gauntlet. As Greatness walks through, Doubt taunts with negative "what if's" and downplays budding potential as nothing but silly dreams.  Fear strikes pushing thoughts of failure and rejection.  Doubt beats your Greatness over the head with "reality" and thinking "rationally" and "realistically".  Fear goes to your Greatness's knees with "You can't you can't YOU CAN'T!".  

As as you Greatness is on hands and knees, bruised and beaten.  What does it do?  Cow Pose, Cat Pose, Upward Facing Dog, Downward facing Dog, Steps Forward to a fold, stands up reaching to the sky, and with hands to heart, Walks forward.  Amongst the taunts, the beatings, bruises, Fear, Doubt, Worries, Greatness walks on until it reaches the End and.....Smiles. Without looking back, Your Greatness continues on to what it was meant to be. Raising you to a higher level by doing what you LOVE to do and living a HAPPY life. 

Inside Out

What is inside a minds synaptic jungle

Must come out of the mouth like a breeze.

Unseen to human eyes

Felt like a heart flutter

Jumpstarting thoughts on its meaning.

What is inside the fist shaped muscle

Must come out to the purpleorange sky.

Pumping imaginations reality through blood

In order to bring rain

Or contained in God’s eyes.

What is inside the throats harp strings

Must come out like reverberating rhythms.

Making opinions dance on light bulbs

Awaking a statement

With a harmonizing song.

What is inside a palm lined with constellations

Must come out as a spilled bottle of bubbles.

Flowing like the fountain of life

In a soft infants eyes

Before a  feather-like sleep. 

What is inside the warped reflection behind an eye

What is inside an ear hearing a planet pause

What is inside a dew drop of passion on a tongue

Must come out. 

Namaste my friend,

~Writer Yogi~ 

The Mat

I am really excited that I got a new mat!! "The Mat" by Lululemon.  I went to a trunk show at PY (Practice Yoga) hosted by Lululemon Hyde Park Square.  I have heard sooo many good things about the mat and am really excited to experience it for myself!  Also, It's MY mat.  The first mat I bought is from Walmart for $10. This was not a good idea.  It was only a good idea to have a mat which I needed the day before I decided to take my first yoga class! Haha. "The Mat" is $68 without tax.  This may seem pricey but I encourage you to invest in a  higher quality mat 1. Because it will feel sooo much better and 2. It will last a lot longer. My walmart mat lasted all of two weeks, perhaps. No support and all slip. (exactly what a beginner needs right?) 

I'm considering writing posts on each of these quotes...sound interesting?

What kind of mat do you have or dream of having?  Is your mat your friend? 

Part of my excitement is having a high quality mat and the other part is having a mat that is mine all mine *rubs hands together* and I don't have to feel guilty about borrowing one from the studio.  I will have a permanent buddy on this wonderful yoga journey.  While getting used to yoga, I will be getting used to my mat. The mat will form to how I practice and wear in like a favorite pair of pants or something.  Basically, something physical that is a personal belonging cared about, worn in, and with you during something else that makes you really happy.  Does that make sense? 

Now, here is a poem about having a yoga mat.  YES! I wrote a poem about a mat.  Question: Why?  Answer: Why not? :-) The idea came to me and I loved it. It's a haiku. A poem that traditionally has ties to nature and has a format of 5 syllable, 7 syllable, 5 syllable.  My tie to nature in this haiku is the nature of the yogi.  Enjoy!

Yogi Nature

What I know is this,

Young children carry blankets,

Yogi's carry mats. 

Peace,

Writer Yogi