Reflections on the Ninth Week of Summer – Kitten Yoga

Rills and Downward Facing Dog

 

July 20, like any other summer mornings since the kittens had the run of the first floor, I lifted my leg and groaned at arthritis grinding in my hips.

Spence and I had constructed a three-foot high cardboard barrier in front of the spiral stairs. We didn’t want Ande, Rills, and Gilbert chasing a paper ball, sliding through the open back stairs, and plummeting to the basement. So, with both hands clutching the stairwell post behind me, I lowered my leg to the landing then lifted the other leg. Not my preferred warm up for yoga, but kitten safety came first.

I climbed, switched on the DVD player, and spread the yoga mat in the center of my loft. A breeze rustled aspen leaves outside and cooled my face inside. Rodney Yee’s mellow voice coaxed my sleep-stiff body to stretch. Below, on the first floor, kitten paws pattered and pranced.

Ignoring my hips, I stretched on my stomach and arched my back into cobra pose.

A blur of tabby streaked past. Rills?

Maybe I imagined the kitten. I pushed my butt into the air and lowered my head for downward facing dog.

An upward facing kitten jumped to rub his nose against mine. Rills.

“There’s a kitten up here,” I called to Spence in the kitchen.

“Are you sure?” The oven door squeaked open, and aroma of bacon floated to the loft. “They all raced over my feet seconds ago.” The oven door squeaked shut. “One, two . . . Oh. Rills is gone.”

Rills darted across the bridge connecting my loft to Spence’s. Paper crinkled. Rills had found Spence’s floor filing system. Rills raced back and rubbed against my body. He snooped and rubbed until the end of yoga practice.

I scooped him into my arms to carry him downstairs.

As if I’d endangered his life―which descending the stairs might do―Rills wiggled and scratched my neck.

“Okay, big boy.” I set him on the landing. “Be careful.”

His front paws plopped down one step. His back paws followed the front. Plop-plop. Plop-plop. Plop-plop. Gathering speed, he hopped down seven steps then ducked between two balusters, scampered along the stairwell railing, and jumped onto the back of the sofa. Not safe.

Spence pulled the cardboard barrier away from the landing for a safer kitten descent.

Ande and Gilbert crept to the edge of the landing, stretched their necks, and peered through the scary backless stairs to the basement. Traumatized, they scampered away.

I didn’t miss the pre-yoga leg lifts.

Rills didn’t miss a minute of Rodney’s instructions. The kitten raced upstairs to the DVD’s musical introduction. Unlike my old cats, which had reclined for rest pose during the entire practice, Rills didn’t rest. Over subsequent weeks, he divided his attention between me and loft exploration.

When I balanced on one foot for tree pose, Rills sniffed and circled my legs. Pressing my little finger against an overhead beam to prevent myself from toppling onto him, I imagined disaster―Rills like a puppy, lifting his kitten leg and letting loose.

He didn’t.

As his confidence grew, he squeezed over the books on the bottom shelf and ventured onto the beam above the kitchen. Step by step he crossed the beam between the bridge and the kitchen wall. That threw shadows onto the ceiling and unnerved Spence, who stirred his breakfast meat-vegetable-bulgur mix in a cast iron skillet on the stove. “Get down! That’s dangerous.”

Rills padded off the beam―much safer than jumping down to the kitchen―and joined me on the yoga mat.

I reached sideways for triangle pose, he dug his claws into my loose linen pants, climbed the pant leg, and stretched his front paws to hang from the underarm seam of my T-shirt. Thank goodness my baggy-fashion sense prevented me from buying tight-fitting yoga pants!

Next Rills ventured onto my work table. With his paw, he batted the thread running from its metal holder to the top of the sewing machine. Opening his mouth, he chomped the thread.

Ignoring Rodney, I lunged at Rills. “Kittens don’t eat thread!” Grabbing him with one hand, I pushed the machine and thread holder against the wall with the other. In my teacher voice, I said, “Kittens don’t play with sewing machines.” Setting Rills on the floor, I returned to the mat, took a deep breath, and exhaled into standing forward bend

Rills put his nose into my ear.

Purrs rumbled.

My brain vibrated.

Whiskers tickled.

My be-in-the-present awareness intensified three hundred percent.

And, no matter what he’d explored or what pose I held, Rills pressed into me so hard I felt I’d been engraved―his way of offering affection and marking me as his.He bunted layers and layers of scent gland secretions onto my face. A sticky mess.

Rills Biting My Pinkie Finger

Better pressing than biting.

With my back on the mat, I spread my arms, stretched bent knees to the right, and turned my head to the left into reclined twist.

Rills scampered from from the yoga mat to the wide TV screen in the corner. He pawed Rodney’s huge image then galloped to my side. Instead of head bunting, Rills opened his mouth lion-roar-wide and bit my nose.

“Ouch!” I pushed the biting monster away with an elbow.

“Did he hurt you?” Spence called from the kitchen. His feet pounded up the spiral stairs. His hands scooped Rills into the air. “You naughty boy. Don’t hurt M.J.B.” [aka Mommy J-bird]

Rills mewing, Spence carried the kitten downstairs.

This past Friday, I slept late. Rills didn’t wait for the musical cue to race to the loft. He explored and plop-plopped down the steps to past me climbing up. At the top of the stairs, Ande’s white face hung over the landing. He’d braved the steps and followed Rills up. He didn’t follow him down.

Rills and Gilbert’s paws pattered and pranced below.

Ande circled the yoga mat I spread on the floor.

I leaned into a forward bend.

He brushed against my leg and curled his tail around my knee. His gentle touch added to Rodney’s mellow voice.

Calm yoga.

Ande wandered behind the boxes stacked in the eaves. Within seconds, he scampered to touch his face against mine in downward facing dog―no sticky residue. After stretching beside me, Ande whirled in tail-chasing circles beside me.

Ande's Yoga Stretch

Not calming. I closed my eyes to prevent a vertigo attack.

Near the end of the practice, Rills raced upstairs. He chased Ande over the bridge and around both lofts.

Lying on my back, I prepared for final relaxation. Let go. Let go. Let go.

The kittens pranced back, wrapped their legs around each other, and wrestled.

Following Rodney’s instructions, I closed my eyes for corpse pose.

Whap, whap, whap. Tails slapped the floor.

I ignored the swirling kittens and listened to Rodney’s mellow voice. “Let go of the tension in your body.”

Splat. A kitten belly hit my neck. Forget the kittens. Relax.

Splat. A kitten belly flattened my breasts. With my eyes closed I couldn’t tell which kitten splatted. It didn’t matter. Release the tension.

Splat. A kitten belly smashed my face. Sheesh! Enough relaxing on my back. I sat cross legged and inhaled for Namaste.

Labor Day, as I typed the end of this saga in the great room, Ande and Rills’ paws pattered and pranced overhead.

From the railing, Gilbert ventured onto the stairs and lifted his nose toward the loft. Merr. Merr. Merrow. Paralyzed by the prospect of leaping to the step above, he retreated, jumped onto the coffee table, and rested his front paws on my shoulder.

I stroked his head. “Don’t worry, little guy.” Cradling Gilbert between my tummy and the computer, I smoothed his whiskers. “You’ll climb to the loft someday.”

When that day comes, I’ll practice yoga in kitten-created chaos.

Rills and Namaste