Have you ever had one of those frustrating days when your spirit craved time on the mat, your body begged for the delicious fluidity of Sun Salutations, but intuitively you knew that physical movement would weaken your already weakened state?
I lived eight months of that last fall and this spring.
I had just returned from a two week, two hundred mile trek through the hills of the Cotswold’s in England, all of it while enduring heavy hemorrhaging.
My body was signalling me that menopause was indeed imminent, and this was its last hurrah. Because I put so much stress on it during the trek, I exacerbated my condition, lost ten pounds, and came home to eight more months of hemorrhaging. Not kidding.
I desperately needed to stretch, move, regain some peace of mind, because everyone was screaming that I needed a hysterectomy and I was convinced that given time, my body would come to a place of balance.
I dreamed of yoga. I needed it. But when I tried, I was quickly pulled back by my ever so wise body, which said, “Be still.”