When Words Don’t Work: Meeting the Body Where It Is
My mom can’t move her foot. She tells it to move, looks at it—and nothing happens. She’s been slowing down for years, but this isn’t slow; this is stop. Then it clicks: life is a Rube Goldberg machine, a chain of causes and conditions. A marble drops, water splashes, a match lights a candle. Circumstances ripen. Karma, genetics—whatever the mix—I’m grateful I can help.
Practice Becomes Care: Teaching Skills at Home
Years of teaching yoga gave me tools for aligning intention and action—mind with body. So when I say, “Move your right foot toward me,” and nothing happens, I change the approach. I stomp my foot to demo. If that fails, I tap her leg gently and ask, “Can you move this one?” We try shifting weight, wiggling toes, bending knees, looking where we want the foot to go—anything that accesses what’s available in this moment.
It takes much longer than you’d think. In that slowness, space opens. I feel my teachers beside me—steady hands, kind eyes—reminding me to cue the breath, to press down through the arms, to find lift through the chest and use the walker with confidence.
Patience in Motion: One Step at a Time
My students taught me to observe closely and speak clearly. Meditation and pranayama taught me to move at my mom’s timing, not mine. We go slowly—literally one step at a time—and rest whenever needed. I’m not naturally patient. I’m driven; I like to move. But I would never want my mom to feel like a burden. Those years of walking meditation are paying off.
From Daughter to Mother: Shifting Roles in Caregiving
I don’t need compassion practice to open my heart to my mom; she is my heart. She taught me cartwheels and the splits, how to knit and sew, shop smart, use moisturizer, stand my ground, and be loyal. We look alike; we feel alike. Her frustration is mine; her wit is still fierce. Even though she’s my mother, it sometimes feels like I’m hers now.
Real Life as Practice (and Practice as Real Life)
Formal practice gives us skills for real life—the moments of friction when the rubber hits the road. But real life also becomes ground for further practice. In yoga and meditation, it’s like knitting the sweater you’re wearing or making—and eating—the cake at the same time. Caring for my mom sharpens awareness that carries into everything else.
Interdependence: We Are Not Separate
Can I translate this care into quicker kindness for others? Can I shorten the hesitation before reaching out? We know our actions affect the whole—people, animals, the living world. Still, we forget. Yoga helps imprint connection: we test actions and notice effects, from planting the four corners of the foot for stability to discovering how patience in a hamstring stretch shows up later as kindness.
What Our Practice Measures: How We Treat Others
At day’s end, the measure of practice is how we interact. Those “others” are not truly other. The love and steadiness my mom gave me now become my capacity to care for her—and to care for others. Isn’t this what practice is for? Isn’t this what parents hope to pass on?
Breath, Wind, and Staying With It
My Rube Goldberg image evolves into a kind of perpetual-motion wish. Physics says perpetual motion can’t exist; energy bleeds off. But Buddhism says mind rides on wind—breath, prana. If we stop resisting the wind of circumstances, we can ride it and be free.
Keep Going: A Caregiver’s Mantra
I won’t let this make me tired in spirit. I’ll keep going: inhale, exhale, stay present. “Lift your leg toward me—good job, Mom.” You took care of me; now I take care of you. One mindful step at a time.
