Walking the Labyrinth by Carly Sachs

On a rainy day after teaching my first yoga class,

I walk the labyrinth knowing TJ is behind me

and Joe waiting at the end,

 

what is it about me and men,

and here, learning to just make friends,

that I can spiral out of old patterns and sit with swirling.

 

Today I asked my students to stir up from their bellies,

feeling their breath, their strength.

 

Last night the thunderstorm,

rain running fingertips against the window and now

she taps my head, closer and closer,

 

we can always come nearer

and dearer I said as we began to breathe this morning,

the dirga breath, deep full inhales my dear friends,

 

my adhitam group, how I went first and Faith after me,

a reminder to keep believing each step, rain soaking through

my shoes, not once have I complained about wet or cold,

 

or my hair, letting loose the idea of failure, of not having

or being enough. I have not removed the drops of rain from

my glasses, each molecule reminding me that that’s what I am,

 

no need to wipe myself away, and now writing this poem,

my cold right foot tucked against my left thigh,

half a lotus beginning to break into blossom.

 

— Carly Sachs is a published poet and yoga teacher. This is from newest collection:  Against the Grain.

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