Sunday Mornings

I love Sunday mornings.

I don't sleep in on Sundays. I get up early, leave my warm bed and give my husband a few hours to sleep, and pop downstairs for some coffee. When I return to our apartment, my feline friends are up waiting by the door.

And so we sit, just the three of us, in a silent cocoon for an hour. We read the NY Times and check up on the world. I'm embarrassed to admit that I might - just maybe - eat almond butter straight from the jar with my banana. And then eight paws follow me back into the closet, quietly, while I pull out clothes to get dressed for class.

I love Sunday morning yoga.

It is one of the only yoga classes of the week for me that doesn't involve rushing to get there or to get back. There isn't any traffic at 8.30 on a Sunday, and the fog is still burning off the bay as I cross into Berkeley.

The studio is always toasty when I arrive, and there is even a quiet about the pre-class rituals on Sunday. There is less talking and movement of mats, more settling and centering by the students around me. Perhaps, like me, they are remembering Sunday mornings as a child, pulling on church clothes and attending mass, as they warm up on their mats - stretching, thinking, being.

There is a comfort in ritual. And so there is something special about Sundays.

Ten breaths to get into downward dog, Pete says, after we set intent.

I'm just happy to be breathing.

Happy to be enough.

There will be other hours to worry about tomorrow. 

Happy that it's Sunday. Happy to be alive.