My odd little ritual

Lately I've started doing something admittedly odd. It started a couple of weeks ago, when I unrolled the yoga mat I purchased this past summer and decided to see how many postures I could remember. With the help of the Internet, I managed to get through about a dozen of them, including one set I liked known as the sun salutation. You've probably seen this sequence, but in case you haven't: you start off by raising your arms above your head, then go down on all fours (downward dog) and bow your back (cobra) before repeating in reverse order to get out of it. At least that's how I think it goes.

I soon started wondering whether I'd gotten the essence of the sun salutation. Should I be picturing the sun in front of me? In that case, should I be facing east? Does it even matter? Why am I saluting the sun anyway? Aren't there other things worthy of saluting?

I then started wondering whether the sun salutation might feel differently if I did it facing a different direction. I repeated it facing south and thought, What's south of me? My parents in Dallas came to mind. In my head, I said hello to them. I couldn't think of my parents without thinking of my brother, so I said hello to him as well. And then I couldn't think of my immediate family without thinking of my extended family, all of whom are in Taiwan, so I said hello to them also.

After that experience it seemed only reasonable to try another direction, so I turned another 90 degrees to the right. Facing west and doing the sun salutation, I thought, Who do I know in this direction? Having just returned from California a couple of weeks ago, I thought of my friends in the Bay area: SHB, KM, and RMK, people I knew from the grad school, from teaching, and from college, respectively. Eyes closed, my mind stretched back even farther: to high school, junior high, and earlier. I said hello to all of these people. And so now, I was doing the sun salutation in two additional directions, each time thinking of different people, each time ferrying silent hellos abroad.

I felt most connected -- most effective -- during the first posture of the sequence, when I held my arms above my head in what's known as urdhva hastasana. But I felt a bit silly greeting my family and friends this way, because the focus of the posture goes upward not earth-ward. Besides, you'd never greet anyone like this. And so I changed the opening posture.

Instead of pointing my arms upward, I started spreading my arms outward, like da Vinci's Vitruvian Man, a posture with its own meaning, even if it's not a yogic one. With arms spread wide, I felt as if I were now embracing family and friends as I said hello to them. I felt magnanimous and free of malice, the same way I feel at Christmas-time when it's okay to wish well on complete strangers. I felt I had not lost so much by moving away from home.

Now, having traversed three directions, I added on the fourth. Turning 90 more degrees I was faced north. What's north? I thought. North of Michigan, not much. Wilderness in the upper reaches of Canada before you finally arrive at the pole. And then it occurred to me that this wilderness could be a metaphor for Earth in general, our home in the universe. Unexplored deeps, the dirt that sustains us, the air from which we take breath, I felt grateful for it all, even if I might not see all of it in my lifetime. Finally I turned east again. I thought again of the sun, but more images came my way this time: the way the Earth spins around the sun, the way dust becomes comets, and the way we're all dust in the eyes of the Milky Way, itself just one galaxy out of billions.

And so, there's my odd little daily ritual explained: arms spread, eyes closed, a silent embrace of family, friends, Earth, universe. I know it seems strange but not any more so than the rationales I've read for yoga or tai chi or other such practices. And if it gives my day a little more meaning, a little more kind-heartedness, then what's the harm?