I’ve been whoring around yoga-wise, and today I stumbled into a basics class at a studio nearby that knocked my socks off. The teacher was explaining how every movement and limb placement affects the rest of the body. To illustrate his point, he recalled taking care of his mother after she’d had abdominal surgery. Among other services, she needed him to open a pickle jar. “Think about it,” he said. “Twisting a lid off a jar causes you to bear down. Everything is connected.”
Yoga is like a weird kind of poetry, that turns ordinary moments into elemental truths.
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