This morning I decided to join a yoga class at our gym. I've been doing yoga for about six years now, but since my son was born I haven't found the right schedule so that I can make the classes. I still manage to get some yoga done at home, but classes are good in that there is someone there to remind you of body positions, little adjustments, and breathing techniques.
In the beginning of the class, we sit and find our center and mentally push out all of the thoughts in our brains. It is imagining only a dark field for me. I used to love this part. All of the kid sounds, dog barks, and morning hassles were shoved away for an hour or so. I craved that blankness.
Except this time, floating in the middle of the dark field was my father. He was smiling. I felt my heart jump into my throat. Unable to mentally move the image of my father, I stifled a sob as the class progressed to the more rigorous poses and stretches. Somewhere in the middle of a warrior pose, I found the dark field again.
For shavasana, we again controlled our breathing and began the full body relaxation. Again, Dad was centered in my dark field. I held off the grief until the very end when we saluted each other with "Namaste".
From this I uncovered the truth about how I feel about life without my father:
There is no safe haven, no amount of mental gymnastics that can overcome this grief, this hole.
I know that the women in the child care center at the gym didn't understand why I was crying as I held my son. I only wish I had had my two daughters there with me as well. Those three children are the best at easing my grief.