Anger

Anger.

With fifteen minutes left until the start my yoga class, I ran out to my car. I turned the key in the ignition and the engine just turned. As the car filled with the stench of gasoline, I cursed my husband for taking the other car and leaving me with this pile of shit of which he had filled with all of his work papers and gym clothes. After five minutes of flooding the car with gas and turning the engine over and over, I ran in the house to find my phone in order to ream him for leaving me without a way to get to my class. I scurried all over the house looking for my cell phone. Hmm. No cell phone. No car. No yoga class. I flung my keys on the counter, sat at the table and pondered whether I should cry.

Reflect.

My whole life I have been drawn to the idea of Ahimsa; throughout the last year this word has continually been brought to the forefront of my mind. Ahimsa: do no harm; do no harm to yourself, this world, and others. Yet, here, I nurture anger toward my husband, who intends me no harm and who loves me without exception for something he could not control or predict. Perhaps, my loss of a cell phone was beneficial, forcing me into contemplation of my actions and emotions, leaving my beloved husband unscathed.

Calm.

I pick up my mat, roll it out onto the wood floor of our living room and raise my arms up into Tadasana.