Tonight, my kiddos and I went to a yoga class together. I was grateful the teacher was open to having two young people join us. It was their first real exposure to yoga and I’m glad I had the opportunity to share it with them. Both of my kids are athletes and I am very much an artist. It isn’t often that the three of us share in physical activities. It was a lovely treat.
To teach them at an early age how to quiet their minds and listen to their body. To give themselves the freedom to just be without judgment. To appreciate their own bodies and give it a different way to move. To see their mother moving her very real body with zero shames or self-consciousness as we all stretched, flexed, and breathed.
At the end of the session, we all wrote down things we would like to let go of that were no longer serving us and burn them in a fire. Both of them wrote their intentions down and watched the flames swallow them up.
Neither of them wanted to share theirs. I told them mine anyway. I wanted them to know that everyone has something for the fire.
As they were snoozing in the back seat as we drove home, I thought of the whole evening. We went to a class to learn a practice from a different culture, along with a group of different people from various races and ages. There was a married couple along with me, a divorced woman with her two kids. Both of whom were born in Ethiopia and I am blessed to be their mom. And we were all learned to honor the light within ourselves and others, all while seeking to reach our highest good through intentional action.
It was truly my ancestors’ greatest dreams come true.