I cried.

Not right then. Not when I felt it, not lying on my mat at the end of class, a huge bolster under my knees, my palms up and out trying hard not to infringe on the space of the people packed in next to me, but later, a little in the car on the way home, a lot more, when finally I was at my chair in front of the computer, the hustle and bustle of our evening routines quieted to a last cup of tea before I headed upstairs.

I just started to sob.

It was compassion. Plain and simple. I was filled with overwhelming compassion for this poor, poor body of mine.

Over worked, undernourished (well-fed, but not nourished), neglected thing. It felt like a tight little ball being asked to unroll, to elongate, and, ever willing, it tried.

The instructor was teaching us how to sit, (yes, apparently, I need to pay someone to teach me how to sit properly, but then we all did in that over-crowded, airless room) and as I settled myself on a cushioned block and tried my best to arrange my legs so that my weight was evenly on both sit bones, I felt something shift in my pelvis.

It was the smallest shift. A tiny, tiny opening. A hint.

And with that tiny shift came unbelievable clarity: this is exactly what I should be doing. This is what my body needs. This is what it wants.

If it doesn’t kill me first.

PS. We also learned the various poses of the Sun Salutation.

*stop* drop* chatarunga*