I love my mat.
Yes. I love my mat. Not I love my Matt.
Not Damon, nor Dillon, nor McConaughey, although, truth be told, I could perhaps learn to love any one of those Matts too. (Remember Matt Dillon in The Outsiders? Man, I thought he was really something in 1983.)
But my mat wears no hat.
No hat, and no cat. (No dog either.)
Mine is actually old and wearing thin in places, and I have plans to replace it when I get my next freelance check, but no matter because that's not the point. Regardless of color, texture, pattern or lack thereof, I'll love my next mat just as much as my current mat.
You see, my mat is my rock, my life preserver, my tiny island of calm in the stormy big world. When I unroll it in the studio, any studio, it becomes my neutral ground, my rubber towel of joy, my rectangle of sanity.
I sweat on my mat, I jump and fly and fall on my mat; I lie, soaked to the bone, tired and spent. I lay quietly, I witness my thoughts. I cry for joy on my mat, I cry with regret, I cry for release. I let go of so much shit on that mat - so many useless thoughts and hang ups, all the coulda-shouldas and why didn't-yas, the self recriminations and raging resentments. I laugh on my mat. I smile on my mat. I'm so fucking grateful on my mat.
My mat has heard every single intention that I have offered up at the urging of so many different instructors, or on my own, for a decade. My mat has seen me exist on almost nothing, weighing in at just 114 lbs after my first marriage fell apart. It has seen me struggle to get my groove back, heavy with milk and baby fat, after childbirth. It has seen me through bad days, really bad days, and all the amazing ones in between. It has seen my body grow stronger and my mind grow lighter. It has seen my spirit soar.
It has been my refuge and my place of reflection, my therapy office and dance floor. I have learned to breath on that mat. I have grown up on that mat.
Yep, my mat, my rock.