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I’m in the middle of a move.  I’d love to be able to snap my fingers, twitch my nose, and be completely done with it.  But I’m not.  I spent yesterday going through things and deciding keep or throw away/donate.  I found in the back of my closet a flannel shirt that belonged to “M.”  There’s a part of me that’s held onto it for reasons like the scene from “Brokeback Mountain.”  After the death of Jack, Ennis keeps a jacket of his in a closet under one of his own shirts and pulls it out missing the man he loved.

I thought that was what I’d do as well.  But to be honest, I haven’t thought much about that shirt for a few years and definitely haven’t been pulling it out.  So I decided to throw it out.  And the waves of sadness, nostalgia, solitude, guilt, anger, and every other grief emotion came up.

I wasn’t sure I would have time to practice but I made time – because yesterday, I needed to get into my body and get back to feeling who I am.  When I got to pigeon on the right side, the tears began to flow.  My right hip is where I carry the strongest attachments to my ex and yesterday they wanted out.  So I let them out.  I cried.  And cried a bit more.  And then sat in silence.  After, I played – because there’s no better way for me to get to my spirit than to play on my hands.

I practice yoga because it continues to save me from myself, from my old patterns, and from those nemesis thoughts.  I practice because I want to stay in feeling and I want to feel from a place of authenticity.  I practice for me.  And there’s no better reason to practice.