On Wednesday, I returned to yoga after more than 10 years. I had been to 3 or 4 classes at my church in the interim. But this was different. I could be just another yogi on the mat.

The studio was much as I remembered it. Clean wood floors, Quiet softly lit space. For me it marked a return to the familiar without any agenda. A new easy posture.

I gravitated to my favorite spot in a back corner of the room.

I gathered a bolster and blanket for extra cushion. Blocks and a strap just in case.

I lowered myself to the floor not entirely sure I’d be able to get back up.

The small friendly group of yogis included a retired pastor and a teacher who may be the most gracious yoga instructor on the planet.

I knew that, if push came to shove, they wouldn’t abandon me, flailing on my mat.

Much to my delight, I was able to get up and down at the appropriate times. Nobody cared that it might have taken me a beat or two longer to negotiate the transitions.

This first practice back and much to my delight, I found myself embodying self-compassion.

I returned to that quiet softly lit room again on Friday. The teacher was new to me; I resisted, especially when (I think I detected) the word “should” come out of her mouth. My judgement was my mirror projection of “should-ing.” I took a slow breath in and out and decided to give her a break. To give myself a break.

When it came time to do the pigeon pose – a hip-opener with one leg straight back and the other forward and bent like a chicken wing – I struggled to place a block under my forward thigh. This was a favorite pose back when I practiced regularly, but I was struggling to get there.

The teacher scooted alongside me to offer the soft bolster, in place of the block. “Rest into this,” she whispered. Her invitation to gentleness was just what I needed. The block was too hard and did not provide the support I needed. I melted into the bolster, resting in pigeon, grateful for her suggestion.

I’m learning to be kind to my body. Even as I lean into a routine of weight training and brisk walks with my dog Catalina, I’m giving myself grace. Saturday, I felt tired so let myself take a leisurely afternoon nap. To set aside the to-do list.

(Sweet Catalina prefers beach walks. And most mornings she demonstrates an excellent downward facing dog pose.)

It feels good to regain the strength of years ago. It feels good, when I sense the need, to allow my body extra time to recover.

More than anything, I want to live well with whatever time I have.

My stroke taught me many things. Not least of which: each day is a precious gift.

As a holistic life coach, I help you integrate body-mind-spirit-emotions as you learn to thrive in the precious life you’ve been given. Message me for an informational call.