Where is the Yoga?

You ask,
you have to ask sometimes,
Where is the Yoga?
Unbelievable how easy it is
To lose
The most beautiful parts of our life
And ourselves
In ourselves;
To lose... just to keep searching.

Easily, I think it is tattooed
Beneath our skin
When the meaning, then,
wanted to pierce
And bleed and heal.
It is tucked in the corners
Of your eyes.
Or the silence at the end of each Om.
Or that inexplicable, mystical swirling,
Or the happy laughter
You may not know
you bring.

Or else,
Beneath your steely eyes
When you draw the shutters close
To hide such a gentle, gentle spirit,
For a few moments.

It is in the discipline you exact
When you believe you have mellowed
and in the Purity
Of that idealism
That you say is cracked
(but I prefer faceted, bejeweled
So that it shines brighter.)

Or when you see us.

It is somewhere between
The humility and sincerity
Of our most perfect
(yet so imperfect) alignment;
On the brink of a meltdown,
Or the miraculous end of our trembling,
Or in that speck of space that took
Six whole months to open.

It is in the eyes of the students
And teachers
You will never claim
But are truly yours
Because Yoga is the connection,
Isn't it?
Never lost and ever found
Like breath.
Is breath.

But you have to ask sometimes,
Where is the Yoga?
And in the same breath,
may you, dear Teacher,
Always, always find it.
As you promised.

(Nov 28 while studying for the exam in the Dining Hall. I highly doubt
this question will be part of our exam....)