
{stock photo, via Google.}
I've practiced yoga off and on for about twelve years. Over the years, I've frequented an amazing hot yoga studio, and I've done my sun salutations overlooking the Caribbean Sea.

{I did sunrise yoga in this gazebo. Wearing real yoga clothes rather than this Lilly cover-up, though.}
However, today wasn't one of those experiences. It was plain old gym yoga. The kind that isn't about meditating, or pushing yourself. It was about stretching. Of course, that was exactly what I needed this morning, a motivator to keep me in the gym. As I warmed up, I remembered that, even though I actually like those power/urban yoga classes offered at conventional gyms, I had a very bad experience with a hateful instructor at my old gym. As I sat on my mat, awaiting the start of the class, I reminded myself that this class would not be led by that horrible lady. And that she can't determine my success or failure.
As the class began, I realized that I had determined my own failure. It had been quite a while since I last practiced. And some of those postures hurt. A lot. But I also remembered how much I enjoyed the practice. I was already sore from class as I drove home in the sleet (can we discuss the way November seems to have just flipped a switch into nasty weather??), I was planning my next class.


























