At the beginning of the year I put this out there:
I wanted a yoga buddy.
I’d been away from formal yoga practice a few short years. Wild happenings interrupted my regular class schedule. Some would call it the catastrophe of 2008. I would call it the adventure of a lifetime.
(Remember: It’s not an adventure unless you can get hurt. We got hurt. But we also got healed!)
How did I put it out there?
I told people. I mentioned it to my wife. I talked up the idea among friends. I stated this desire at a vision meeting we do every six weeks with another couple.
I wrote it down.
A slew of times.
(What is a slew of times? More than several, less than a multitude.)
Then I let it go.
Months go by — will it be the acupuncturist, I think; will it be this new acquaintance, or that one? — and the unlikeliest of yoga buddies surfaces.
A father from my son’s playdate group since pre-school suggested we do a yoga class together.
A smoker! Maybe an almost ex-smoker. Yet he was hellbent on getting back to yoga too.
So here I am, engaged in regular yoga instruction again with the perfect partner for me. I love this guy’s enthusiasm, his fresh unfiltered New York-style take on the pains and gains of yoga, his insistence on making it routine.
(Though I shouldn’t be, once again I’m agog at how it all comes together if you put it out there.)
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