The Dreaded Question (s)

“How often do you practice yoga?”

Whenever mom’s bored with my conversation, she asks me. So I get it a lot.

I know she means a physical practice but I always go the philosophical route with my answer. It’s sort of a game.

“Every day” I reply.

“Really.” She looks up from the needlepoint chair cushion she’s been working on forever. Her eyebrows are raised in question and with slight skepticism. (I’d find every day hard to believe myself.)

“My practice is less physical and more mental. That’s harder.”

“Good answer slacker”, someone, somewhere is saying, or maybe that’s just me.

I think mom’d rather a more athletic response. At 95, she’s still addicted to exercise and doesn’t understand why her children aren’t following directly in her never ending footsteps. Or maybe she’s checking my sincerity. Will I say the same thing over the years? Is it a real commitment to yoga, like some hold with religion or favored book genres? Or am I faking that I know what I’m doing and what I believe in?

The last time she checked on my true devotion to something was when I said I was going to take a gap year after high school. She asked me a few times what I was going to do instead. My answers were all over the map, yet they included nothing around the map. 

I didn’t know where I was heading or how, and somehow mom knew I wasn’t yet ready to flow with the world.  I was lucky to be offered 4 years of college to hone some directional skills instead.

Her  questions then and now are good reminders for me to take stock.

Am I following my authentic self with knowledge and direction?

Do I know what I’m doing?

The last time she asked about the frequency of my practice, I had put some thought into my answer and was prepared.

“When I get tailgated on the road and I don’t react by slamming on the brakes, I’m practicing yoga. 

I’m practicing when I patiently collaborate, or agree to do something I have no interest in doing.

When I do any kind of manual labor for longer than 20 minutes, or add  kale to my breakfast smoothie, I’m practicing yoga.

When I clarify a misunderstanding or share a brownie, it all counts as part of my practice.

When we are committed to yoga, it’s a full time way of being.”

Mom nods her head in agreement with my monologue. My response sounds authentic to us both, with just a touch of predictable laziness on my part.

How often do you practice? Mom wants to know.