Namaste New Year

“When you are fully present, you are no longer feeding fear or separation. Your being becomes an act of service.”
— Ram Dass

It’s a new year. Time to try something new, I tell myself, walking—just a wee bit nervous—from the car toward a recently opened yoga studio near my house. Did I mention it’s a hot yoga studio? As an adventurous woman now in my early seventies—and craving relief from the winter chill—it sounded downright cozy. The last time I took a hot yoga class, with temperatures climbing toward 105 degrees, was twenty years ago. I’ve stayed active over the years and practiced yoga on and off, so… you’ll be fine, I reassure myself while summoning the courage to leave my shoes in the cubby and roll out my mat.

We begin seated, cross-legged, following the instructor as she gracefully lifts her arms overhead, palms touching, then slowly draws her hands down to her heart.
“As we welcome in the new year,” she says serenely, “take a moment to set an intention—for the year and for today’s practice.”

My mind immediately scrambles. What’s the right intention? Strength? Flexibility? Lose those extra holiday pounds? I slow my breath. My shoulders drop. And then—softly but clearly—one phrase rises from somewhere deeper, perhaps stirred by the warmth or the way my hands rest against my heart: self-devotion. My mind quiets. My body relaxes. I’m ready.

Ten minutes into class, the room feels less like a yoga studio and more like a sauna. By pose three, my inner monologue shifts from this is good for my joints to this must be how lizards feel. As I lift my arms overhead for side bends, sweat drips down them like tiny, sparkling rivers.

Balancing on one leg while reaching down to grab my raised foot, really? Neither graceful nor possible.

Oh—it’s my weak ankles.
Oh—it’s my age.
Oh my—gravity is winning.
I wobble. I fall out. I try again. I fall out again.

Tight hips. Trembling legs. My body is speaking to me—honestly and without sugarcoating. And right on cue, here comes the resistance. The frustration. The judging mind. Can I learn to be with discomfort—in my body and in my thoughts? Can I accept what is with patience?
Can I practice this here… and then carry it with me into my life—with myself, my grandkids, and the world? I lift my leg once more and offer myself a gentle prompt: Observe thoughts like clouds floating by in a vast blue sky. I am the sky.

Leaning back into camel pose, my spine stretches and the muscles in my back release just enough—like a cool breeze in the desert—to bring relief. I’m making peace with the heat. I’m making peace with myself.

In tree pose, with my right foot rooted into the earth and my left resting against my inner thigh, balance comes a bit more easily. I listen closely to what my body is asking for instead of pushing past it. Thank you, it seems to say. Thank you for paying attention.

The hour draws to a close. I lie on my back in savasana, arms relaxed, eyes closed. A deep sense of rest settles in—along with completion and accomplishment. I’m really proud of myself!

Kneeling on our mats, we lift our arms one last time before bringing our palms to our hearts. I return to my intention and realize something important: stepping onto the mat is an act of courage. Staying there—present with whatever arises—is an act of  self-devotion that has the potential to expand into something larger than myself. I’ve come to think of self-care as stewardship. When we tend to ourselves with compassion, healing spreads quietly, person by person. The smallest gestures—eye contact, listening, kindness—matter. That’s why I’m here. And as I glance around the studio, I sense that this is why we are all here.

Namaste—the light within me honors the light within you.