Balasana

A mother and her daughter practice at the shala. This morning, our teacher was away, and so the daughter was our teacher. Aside from the fact that this woman was a gentle, kind, generous teacher, and aside from her beautiful energy that made practice beautiful, I was most struck by how she adjusted her mother. The mother rested in child's pose, Balasana, and her daughter gently applied pressure up and down and around her mother's spine. She kissed her mother on the back, and then lovingly massaged her neck. And I watched and wanted to cry.

I don't know this mother-daughter relationship that I see in practice; I am sure that it is immensely complex. But the moment I saw was pristine. I cast my faith in the hope that it was part of an iron-clad bond, and I marveled at the deep irony of mother in Balasana, daughter as teacher.

I imagined my daughter and me, twenty-five years from now. And I hoped, I hope, that I merit that same tenderness from her. I have not known her for very long. Much to learn..volumes. But our love is raw, and urgent, and necessary. She takes me for granted, and I think that's beautiful. But I see her studying me with fascination. I see her face when I walk into the house and she loses her breath with excitement. And I watch her depend relentlessly on me as I nurse her. Wrapped up in all of this caring, which will change forms through millions of seasons of being mother and daughter, I intend never to lose her respect.

And never to take her for granted.