Prioritizing practice

Having children brings to the forefront new questions about priorities. In my life since the baby came, every decision bounces off of the child as a point of comparison, of relativity. Almost every want takes time away from the child, and begs the question: is it worth it? Is it as big, as important, as necessary? When my partner and I were in negotiations throughout the pregnancy—you will do this, I will do that—we talked about the many pieces of our lives that would shift when our daughter arrived. Hobbies, athletics, social time, my practice. We negotiated the day, and thanks to my partner's generosity and emotional fortitude, I have a steady morning Ashtanga practice.

But it has not been without the underlying ache of guilt. My child is now 27 months, and I am just now, just this week, starting to let go of that guilt. I started practicing again about six weeks after her birth...small pieces at a time. I would get to Trikonasana and she would cry to be fed. I would nurse, she would return to sleep, and I would pick up where I'd left off, getting to Marichyasana before the next nursing...and so on. All the way to the end. Nursing her became part of the vinyasa, and I breathed through the interruption, trying to ride it like a wave through the practice. Within a few months I was back at the shala on most days. And now, generally, it's 5 days in the shala and one day of home practice (Sundays).

No doubt, she was the practice. She is. And my mornings away from my family spill back into our family in more ways than even I, ever-observant and awfully-analytical, can register. I practice for myself...but I really practice for them.

Recently I caught a glimpse of the whole picture: the birth, the journey back, the undulation of time spent with child and time spent on the mat, the negotiation with my partner for that precious morning practice. And I felt in that broader capturing of the practice that the guilt had begun to fade. It fades partially because I see my sweet daughter now practicing with such consternation: her palms together at the heart center, with furrowed brow, copying the gestures of her mother without my urging her to do it. Why, the other day she was looking at a digital picture of herself cross-legged, and I heard her whisper, "Sukasana." She sends me.

As she grows, and as I see myself becoming a kinder, clearer, more consistent person (mother, partner, friend)—even if these changes are only noticeable to me, for Heaven's sake—I can release the guilt I used to feel for prioritizing practice. It has taken some time, and I have to constantly recalibrate it. But it is only by understanding the immeasurable strength and balance, patience and softness that practice has given me, that I have begun to truly give myself permission to stand by it as a gift I give to myself and, even more important, a gift I give to my family.