I show up to my mat for my morning yoga practice to prepare for the day, & continuous tests fill the calendar with struggling disappointments & hard-won satisfaction.
My mat is in my Study where I work with frustration at the constant sensitive task of convincing my own struggling smile to market an exhausted lifestyle.
I sweat into my mat & onto the old carpet covering the floor, making a dark mark on the tired fibers. I crawl off my mat & pick at the corner of the carpet, a rusted staple securing the end that pulls up with a strong tug, revealing hardwood floors underneath.
I stand with the four corners of my feet planted firmly, & rip the carpet free from tacks, nail strips, dried out epoxy, filthy pad, & the crushed, small trash of a lazy handyman.
I roll the heavy carpet & pry hardware from the wood, & sweep away dirt, freeing the floor.
With the gorgeous grain, I wipe each board, polish every plank, oil & smooth over individual damage & holes on the glowing golden oak.
I lay my mat back out, kneel in warrior to prepare for my practice, find my breath freer without the trampled carpet crowding & connect with the clean wood underneath, which speaks of a life growing, grown, & gone, but present, purposeful, & persistent.
After practice, I lay on my back to prepare for Savasana, final rest, feet splayed off the mat: the souls of my feet on the ground, I open a fluttering door of light, emanating the energy of now & the grace of gold: a glowing sarcophagus promise awaits.