Golden Gate Bridge Pose


The Golden Gate Bridge

I  love the Golden Gate Bridge.

There are many reasons for this love.  Probably my favorite is,  it can’t always be seen.  It has the capacity of hiding itself under the dense San Francisco fog.  And then, it reveals itself again. I love it for that.

Becoming a mother has  revealed moments of a fogged up mind, of not knowing what has happened to the person I used to be and unsure of who I will be later.  Am I now a mother and therefore that is my identity now?   What about the past identities I thought I was? The daughter, the student, the teacher, the wife, the nerd, the writer, the dancer, the proffesionist, the idealist.   Sometimes I feel like I am all those things, sometimes it feels like none of them at all.  Sometimes this is exciting and  at other times, it is scary.  Beneath the fog — the change –a question echoes:

Who am I?

The question ripples and turns like the Om at the start of a yoga practice.

This is the question I wake up every morning with.  It’s the question that has begun to guide my practice.

In the midst of little sleep, of caring  for my little one, I wake up early, when it’s still foggy outside and inside, and I get on my mat.   I don’t really know what will come out of it.  I just arrive.  I have committed to my morning practice.  Sometimes the fog is heavy.

But still, I know the space of clarity is there. I revel in the remembrance of The Golden Gate Bridge.  The  bridge remains steady in the coming and going of  cyclists, pedestrians, cars, winds, sunny days, and fog…lots of fog.  Its stability in the midst (and mist) of change and uncertainty is inspiring.

As I work through the tight muscles from carrying my babe and nursing and rocking him and repeating, and as I breathe through the ache of a  heart that opens more every day with love for this new little being, I sit with myself first thing in the morning. Who am I when I’m not the mother, the wife, the student, the teacher?  When I’m just here, in the morning, with myself, with my breath.  Even for just a moment.

Perhaps there is no answer.  Perhaps who I am  is simply that which is calling me to come close and listen a while.

And so I sit. I offer my practice. 

And then at some point,

the fog dissipates

and there it is

the beautiful  tip of the bridge.


“Let us go in, the fog is rising”

-Emily Dickinson


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