I’m lying in Savasana (corpse pose) at the end of yoga class. My eyes are covered, body quietly breathing, as the teacher speaks a few words of inspiration to us. All of a sudden, I begin to hear some rustling near the door. Since I’m closest to the door, I can feel a little fear arising within me. The rustling gets louder, not terribly loud, but enough to hook my attention.
I imagine a mouse scurrying across the floor, heading right toward me. I feel my heart racing, my mind wondering if the teacher sees anything. “It’s going to bite me,” I think, as my body shakes a little. I hear the teacher begin to read an ancient poem from a 12th century female poet — something full of wisdom probably, if only I could pay attention to it. I hear him read, hear my mind trying to talk my body out of its fear. “He’ll protect us. It’s probably not a mouse anyway.” My heart is still racing. It doesn’t believe the story I’m telling, nor the feeling of being ridiculous that is coming up beside it. I hear the teacher finish the poem, begin another one.
The rustling noise changes somehow, growing louder in a way that doesn’t sound quite mouse-like. Still, I’m hooked, unable to let it go. My heart is jumping around. I can feel myself landing back on the raggedness of my breathing, hearing the words of the last poem fade away, as it’s time to get up.
Uncovering my eyes, I see the room again. I rise, and put away my props. Stepping out of the yoga studio, I see a fly hitting the window again and again. Just like the mind, I think to myself, always conjuring silly, dramatic stories that smack up against reality.
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