In the centre of summer, in the middle of Toronto, it is so quiet that I am sure I can hear my hot pink geraniums shimmering on the balcony.  Wholly saturated in colour, they vibrate softly.  Around us,  the streets are as empty as the gardens are full.

Amidst this horticultural ecstasy, a new motivation to do my Yoga is growing.  Although Yoga heals my body and mind,  I am practicing just for the sake of practicing.  It’s hard to describe the shift.   My breath and body is turning into a prayer, not a formal declaration or a supplication but a movement that penetrates the world none the less.  The prayer has no purpose.  The prayer is simply alive.  This takes me by surprise.

While I was schooled in a convent until I was almost twelve, I decided then that the lives the nuns lived made no sense and that I wanted out.  I transferred to a public school and when the rest of my family went to church, I stayed home.  My prayer stopped.

The sexual politics of the Catholic Church baffled and outraged me yet something of my time with those devoted women has clearly remained.  We prayed to Mary, the Mother of God.  While it wasn’t acknowledged, we were praying to the Source.  Now my prayer isn’t made of words but moves with all of me.  In harmony with what I am, I too vibrate softly.