and we're off again with forehead freshly smeared and spirit seared anew by memories of dust, rumors of all or nothing up ahead. These frigid days and weeks lean inward, huddling for warmth, and disciplines attempt in vain to shape them toward value, meaning, promise. Warmth will, of course, return bearing its customary, temporary, blossoming. But all remains a stay of execution till the stone is rolled, those sentries flee, and startled women run with aching news.
We're all perpetually longing for love. Fortunate are those who realize early that another human being can't meet this unrequitable need. Even more fortunate are men and women of prayer who realize that peace comes by embracing the longing itself.
Our teacher cautions us that the corpse pose is the most difficult of all yoga postures to master, but after an hour’s exertion in warrior pose, downward-facing dog and cobra, the prospect of relaxing horizontally on one’s yoga mat brings both relief and the impertinent question, “How hard can it be?” Fascinated, I report to my husband, “Every day at the conclusion of yoga class we practice dying.” “That’s interesting,” he says, trying to share my enthusiasm. “It’s kind of like Lent,” I venture. "Lent is when we’re supposed to practice dying, right?”