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By Edouard Soon  “200 Hours”
You might of, heard of it, this thing called yoga. After 200 hours of teacher training, I’ve kind of, learned a bit—but hold up. Not in the sense that I’ll write up, cursive tips, and show the, world how I want them to sit right up, turn and twist, and hold a, pose while reciting lines from, monsieur the whip, and most loved, B.K.S. Iyengar’s “Light On,” words of wit, like I’ve absorbed the, full meaning when there’s a thousand levels to this artistic science, worshiped with, focus. Surely I could advise some, hurting hips, with bolsters. Rather, I began and signed up shy of, my 36th, to post up, in the paint so yoga can assist and help me dunk on life from, a perfect grip, while on mats like Yoda. Now that I think of it, Suzanne’s price of, services, could’ve been bolder. I still would’ve signed up, served some gifts, and still felt I owed her. Prior to, my heart felt like it was tangle tied up, in tourniquets, and smoldered. I’d constantly worry my seesawing blood pressure would capsize once, courtesy, of father’s inherited motor. Instead, these tearful worries dried from, repurposing, my sit bones that couldn’t lower. Now my OM’s, serve to give, total, silence, furthering, my heart to grow young.
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