It’s awkward to admit, but despite being a yoga instructor, I’ve never been particularly absorbed by the mechanics of the body, until this past week in New York.
The city is infinite in its pleasures, and I don’t need to count the ways, but the ability to drink without driving is high on my list of appreciation, along with the MET and outdoor cafés and gorgeous men in suits.
Still, my deepest gratitude goes to my feet. These 51 year old friends walked mile upon mile, day after day, on hard concrete, at a pace set by a city that never sleeps, without complaint, or at least not a complaint that could be heard over the outlandish display of outrage offered by my right hip on days 2 and 3, or the moans of my left knee on days 3 and 4, or the whining of my inner thigh on days 4 and 5.
In fact, I didn’t hear from my feet until the last two days, and even then, it was barely a peep.
Ironically, in the weeks preceding this trip, I expressed a desire to deepen my relationship with my first chakra, and that I did, carefully noting the relationship of the muscles in my hips and thighs, knees and feet, calves and arches; creatively exploring stretches to support and counter each strain and pain and resistance.
While others stared impassively or curiously, I played with the mechanics of my body at every red light, in each subway car and in a handful of conference rooms at the United Nations.
My body, in all its wisdom, had designed a personalized anatomy course just for me.