At the beginning of yoga class began last week, our teacher invited us to say a little about transitions and how that might be playing out in our lives. Although each of us had something different to contribute, that summer had ended and fall had begun was definitely a common theme.
It was a wonderful, varied, invigorating class so when it came time for savasana, I gratefully sank into “corpse pose,” the traditional ending to every yoga class, with every muscle in my body relaxed and my eyes closed.
Well, almost every muscle. Because as I lay there on my mat, aware of only my breath and the quiet, a set of hands firmly but gently pushed my shoulders against the mat as if to say: “You’re still holding onto some tension, there. Here! Let me help you release it.” And then, almost as though there had been a second pair of hands it happened so fast, a folded blanket perfectly cradled my head.
Here’s the thing: While I knew it had been Annie, my teacher, who’d performed these kindnesses, I had the eyes-shut-tight vision that, indeed, I was on my death bed and that someone, a daughter, perhaps, had eased my burdens and calmed my mind as I moved towards The Big Transition: my death.
Does that sound morbid? It hasn’t felt so. All week I’ve been grateful to be reminded that my remaining years on this precious earth, like the hairs on my head, are numbered.