One of the first nature sounds I noticed when we moved back to the mainland from Hawai’i was the caw of crows. It was in mid-October, just as it is now and the cawing seemed sharper against the changing leaves. Until then, I’d never really noticed crows around me before, although I’m sure they were. Probably, it was the lack of the familiar sounds of the mid-atlantic section of the country that I’d experienced in my three years in the Pacific that made them sound so much more memorable than most would find them to be.
In fact, the entire fall experience was something I had missed for three years, the smells of drying and burning leaves, the feeling of crisp air on my cheeks and nose and of course the burst of colors in the trees. Each year I welcome this change as a time to slow down and prepare for quiet time.
Recently I have added a yoga class to my weekly routine. Every Tuesday morning a small group of us meet in a very old clapboard church, long abandoned by its congregation but reclaimed by our local international group, in this tiny worship space on a narrow country road to explore “the practice”.
I joined the class late in the session and have attended three times. Each time I have learned something new about myself. Today, as I was practicing deep relaxation and attempting to clear my mind, I heard crows conversing in the trees. In my pondering of why I should be so interested in crow speak, I began to feel a hunger grow inside me to slow down and be present in each and every moment instead of looking at each point in my day as a launching point for something else.
Even in my clumsy attempts at achieving perfect poses, I have begun to realize that a perfect pose for me isn’t if I can ever manage to do a shoulder stand, it is if I can maintain my composure and relaxation while trying, ever-present in the reality that in yoga as in all things in life, I am not called to be the best at doing it, just the best me at doing it.