A note to my yoga teachers

A note to my yoga teachers, know on the days you see me, more often than not I am present for basic survival reasons. I come to yoga because at least I know I can do this. I can go to a room with other human beings, hear a real human voice, be at least peripherally observed that I still am alive by human eyes and move my body to accomplish something small. At least today I can do this.

I can be in yoga near other human beings and not feel like I am violating other people’s space to succumb to either rejection or complete invisibility. I can smell the scent of visibility even if no one directly speaks to me in the entire before, during, or after process or I to them.

One of you, my teachers, may be the only human I speak with face to face all day, and cumulatively you may be the only group all week in whatever perfunctory politeness or genuine exchange occurs. You are the modern American therapy for the bargain price of less than a hundred dollars a month.

The radio reminds me physical isolation and lack of relationships is a greater risk to shorten my lifespan than lack of exercise or an unhealthy diet.