Ode to My Yoga Mat
My yoga mat might as well be a magic carpet. When I’m on it, nothing else matters. When I roll it back up, I leave everything on my mat that doesn’t serve me. I pound my blood, sweat and tears into the mat.
Sometimes when I clean my mat, I envision this action as evocative of cleansing my soul. It’s a liberating yet grounding feeling.
I roll it up, tuck it under my arm, and then head home. Later, I might unroll it again and lay on it in Savasana, and let all those worries and fears embed back into the mat.
It’s a dual-colored mat. The bottom is mint green and the top is tangerine. It’s aesthetically pleasing. It’s not light to carry and is really heavy-duty. It needs to be strong to absorb all the worries and anxiety I breathe into it.
My yoga mat is my favorite possession. Yet I don’t own it; it owns me. It has become an extension of me. Some people think of their phones or pets as an extension of themselves, but I know my mat is part of me. And that’s because I like the person I am when I’m on it. Because every time I get off it, I’m a better person than before.