I've been doing a lot of yoga in bathrooms lately. I went to New York and couldn't sleep, and chose the cramped space over the option of waking my bunkmates. 30 minutes of pigeon, warrior two, down dog and utthita trikonasana later, I was relaxed and fully present enough to sleep. Even though I couldn't go into full forward flexion from wide-legged stance because the tub was in the way, I discovered that the hard gleaming surface (no yoga mat required!) and total darkness (no distractions) actually aided my practice. Maybe that's why I've been doing it at home.
I didn't know I would become an everyday yoga kind of person. But I finally understand what all the fuss is about. On that trip to New York, the one where being away from my daughter had some kind of beyond-words heartbreak that simply led to tears over and over and over, I sought out healing workshops like Blackberry Yoga, taught by Benjamin Black (my idol Misty Tripoli's sidekick). His message was: yoga isn't for "perfect." Yoga is casual and free. Do a forward fold just before a business meeting. Side bend in the hallway. Do a twist while at a red light. Bring it into your life, your actual life.
Ever since January, I've been doing just that that. Matsaysana with my legs tucked under me, whatever that is, while on the floor with Peony climbing onto my chest, and down dog with a down cat flexing her claws on my yoga mat.
With the breath, it brings me into the flow; the flow of the night, of the day, of the sound of birds and freight trains out our window at 5:30am.