Don't forget to breathe.

I woke up Thursday morning and inhaled so deeply it was as if time stopped but for my lungs expanding.  It was both brilliant and meditative in its simplicity.  In that moment I felt healthy, apt and ready to embrace what followed.  It is humbling and important, I think, to realize how lucky one is simply to be awake and alive.  And so, on one of the first January mornings of 2013, an hour before my 6:30AM yoga class, I thanked god  for giving me this day and exhaled, as deeply as I inhaled, my way out from under the covers and into a cold, dark morning with endless possibilities.

As a runner that's new to her thirties and new to the slower recoveries this decade has been rounding up, I've found yoga both restorative and necessary.  It has become the trusted, best friend that's always ready to pick me up after running has undoubtedly chewed me up and spit me out over hills and bridges, steps and frozen ground, along foggy water and through old neighborhoods.

I look forward to the moment the door closes and locks out the noise and lights of the world.  When my left ankle aches, I know I will take extra ankle turns and spend some time there.  When my hips are tight, I know  I will ease my way into the practice and take care with my joints.  And when my lower back is screaming from the prior day's 10 mile hill workout, I know I will twist ever so slightly further into the dark, hot room and focus my mind on feeling strong.  I will feel the subtle beat of the iPod and I will become steady and sure of myself.  I will heal.  I will wake.  I will keep moving.

Over the last year, I've found that yoga is not a compliment to my running.  Rather, it resides at the core of my stride.  It strengthens and loosens what needs work and fixes what has been broken.  When something gets intense, there is your breath.  When there is a challenge of balance or focus, there is your breath.  When you are folding deeper into your practice, there is your breath.  And much like this central point of my yoga practice, my running has, too, become peripheral to breathing.

When my legs are heavy, I suck in as much cold air as I can and squeeze it out of my lungs in a hush.  I am propelled forward.  When my arms are sore or my head foggy, I lean into myself, tuck my tailbone and feel my core engage all of me.  And I am moving, once again, in one strong flow.  When my lower back tweaks at the end of a hill, I reach forward, unplug my shoulder blades and plug them back onto my back once again.  Feeling new and powerful, I crush the descent.

Through it all, I do not forget to breathe. I take this with me, in my pocket, and make an effort to remind myself, whether I'm standing in line or running to catch a bus or running errands at lunchtime, that no matter what, no matter where, "Your whole life is here; there is no eleventh hour reprieve; so don't forget to breathe (Alexi Murdoch, Breathe)."