Yoga in the vil’

10 August 2014

“Odi? Odi?“

It is early. I’m just finishing up my morning yoga practice – maybe even attempting the nearly impossible task of sitting in silence, with no thoughts swirling through my head.

But there will be no meditation today, because a small voice is asking to enter my yard. Maybe she wants to draw. Maybe he is returning a borrowed pot or tool. Occasionally the voice might belong to Ba Bernardi or Ba Allan, with some urgent early-morning matter to bring to my attention.

“Odi? Odi?“

I take a deep breath and open my eyes. Reluctantly, with as much cheer as I can muster, I answer: “Kalibu!” (Come in!)

This is my real yoga practice. Not stretches and crazy arm balances and attempts at meditation. Here in Mfuba, my practice happens mostly off the mat, every time I try to be social and kind when what I really want is to be alone.

This just happened in my yard one day. Stephen, aka Bwalya, started doing head stands. Then the smaller kids all wanted to try.

I step outside and greet my visitor. I’m sure he or she thinks I was still sleeping, and I rarely tell anyone otherwise. How would I explain? I was stretching? Praying? Trying to rise to the challenge of another day? I let them think what they will.

This frequent ritual used to drive me nuts. (As did the morning ritual of cleaning bat droppings from the floor where I practice yoga – something to which I’ve grown accustomed more quickly than I have to the early-morning visiting.)

Damn you early-rising, constantly visiting Bembas! How am I supposed to clear my mind or relax when there’s always someone interrupting?!

I am so, so far from enlightenment.

Yoga isn’t about poses on a mat. It isn’t about meditating. I suppose everyone has their own take, but I think it’s really about finding peace wherever I find myself – physically, mentally, and emotionally. (And, probably, not judging and cursing my neighbors.)

Even if I find myself with 15 noisy, arguing kids in my yard, all calling out, “Ba Terri! Ba Terri!” when I’m trying to cook or do laundry or plan a workshop.

Kamfwa, Katongo, Muso, and Cila all trying to do hand stands against the back wall of my house.

Even if someone asks me for things I’m not willing to give. Even if someone criticizes me. Even if I’m too critical of myself. Even if I’m just plain exhausted.

Even when a small voice asks for my attention at a time I consider to be inconvenient.

Yoga is accepting that I can’t change my own perceptions and cultural values – or the world – overnight. And that I can’t change anything in a vacuum, without friends, neighbors, or human connections.

And maybe – just maybe – yoga is realizing that I don’t need to change anything at all.