Thursday reflection

 Thursday Reflection

Patience, Discipline, and Spiritual Fitness

I rose before 4 AM, stepped onto my mat, and entered my practice — 600 push-ups woven into two hours of yoga. For me, push-ups and yoga go hand-in-hand. Each set of push-ups leads me into an asana pose. Each time I grow tired, I pause in stillness, breathing into the spine. Then I rise again. This rhythm is meditation: movement and stillness, breath and body, prayer and patience.

What I learned today is patience. There is no shortcut into peace. The spine must open, the breath must deepen, and the body must be fully present. The tightness remains, but new strength is rising in me.

I jogged two miles before church, chanting as I ran. In service, the sermon from Luke was beautiful, and I thanked the Father who preached it. Afterward, I remembered a deacon’s words from twenty years ago: “Running is your purpose.” Even now, jogging slowly, spine open, chanting, I feel the truth of that.

I see how my path is different. In the recovery rooms, I notice how few bring exercise, diet, or movement into healing. Without it, emotions run wild, and relapse follows relapse. Many replace one weight with another — cigarettes, food, excuses. My own healing came another way. When my father passed, I could not attend his funeral because of my situation, but I had already forgiven him years before. Through Ifá, through Buddhism, through running and yoga, I made peace.

That same year, I ran 200 marathons. Every single day, 7–8 hours on the road. At marathon 162, movement returned to my hand, years after a stroke had taken it. Discipline gave me back what was lost. And though my immigration status and the stroke kept me from working, they did not keep me from living. For ten years, I rose each day, studied, read, prayed, practiced yoga, and ran. No certificate could equal that kind of training.

I know people don’t always understand me. Some call me crazy. Some look down because I don’t live by material standards. But I see more clearly now: my life is a sermon. My practice is the proof. And even as I see through the lies people tell themselves, I must remain patient.

Spiritual fitness takes time. Ten years of discipline has taught me that. And today, I remind myself: I don’t need to preach. I only need to live it. To speak when I am supposed to. To keep opening my spine, my breath, my spirit.

Today is simple. Today is enough.