At the moment the days are rolling into one another; a blur of emails, stories and day-to-day busyness. Somehow, three editorial deadlines have fallen on the exact same day as Che's birthday. Throw into the mix a pirate party and a request for the best chocolate cake with strawberries please mum and I have a ridiculously full week ahead of me.
I'm a thinker, a dreamer and a worrier. Often I spend far too much time in my head. When I need clarity I go for a walk and most of the time I take the children with me. Che, like most little ones, is fascinated by the minutiae. When we walk he's always ten steps behind; following the ants, inspecting the broken fence, collecting fallen blooms. Before long I join him and whilst it isn't purposeful, I end up crouching to his height, gathering pods and leaves and seeds, and grounding myself. It's like a beautiful yoga practice, where I settle into my body, connect to the earth, and exhale.
When people discover that I am a yoga teacher the immediate presumption goes something like this: vegetarian, 5am sun salutations, ever-calm-(((((((om))))))))-muma. The reality? I eat meat, I can't remember the last time I rose with the sun to practice and I om to calm myself when the stress-levels peak. When I birthed Che and tried to navigate that strange first year I came to realise that yoga isn't my asana (posture) practice at all. My yoga is staying present when the tasks ahead are overwhelming, practicing a few rounds of cat stretching on the kitchen floor while dinner cooks, breathing bhramari (humming bee breath) in the shower to settle my nervous system.
Yoga is an afternoon walk where I mimic the pace of my little yogi. Meditation is arranging our treasure on the table when we return home.