Shit. Look at the time!!! It’s later than it should be. Shit. Shit. Panic. Panic.

I scramble to mumble goodbye, shut down, layer up – cardy, coat, gloves, scarves (yes, two), beanie, bag, backpack – and speed-waddle out of the building. I’m cutting it extremely fine but I’m so desperate for a class that I have to concentrate on not tripping over my own feet as I move quicker than I’ve ever known myself to. I haven’t been for a week and I really miss it. It’s a jumble of dip-tripping thoughts inside my head too as I argue with myself about whether I’ll make it or not and start setting myself time goals for when I need to be at certain stations in order to make it.

Interestingly, I don’t once stop to calmly visualise myself in the class. It was just all about the frantic journey. Which is precisely what I got. A frantic, thought-muddled, fuckitty-fuckitty, will–I–won’t–I journey. And no class. I was too late.

With a raging fury rising up to make my skin flush I head home. I’m annoyed with myself and am just about to slip into a spiral of self-loathing mind-talk when I hear myself saying “The yoga will always be there” to a friend sometime last year when he was in a similar state. And I am not only immediately calmed and smiling at how silly I am, but I’m suddenly really excited. As if I’ve just heard great news. It hits me in a way that it never really has before. This wonderful, wonderful practise which gives me so much, feeds me and nourishes me physically and emotionally, will actually always be there. I will always have it. The mat will always be waiting. And unlike anything else that has no guarantee (jobs, relationships, friends, even family), this will never leave me. No rush then. Home to friends and wine instead. Yoga another day. I’m so happy it makes me giggle.

Anicca innit.