Yes, that’s right, with this title I’m making a cheeky reference to this fascinating blog by Gregor Maehle . . .

As well as a pointed admission about myself.  “Zealot” is a word that describes me rather well (Or, if you prefer, fanatic, ideologue, addict, buff, freak, junkie, or fiend also do quite nicely.)

Fact the facts Jean: You suffer from an all or nothing mentality. You let the perfect be the enemy of the good. You create brass rings and benchmarks where none exist just because, well, that’s your m.o.:

I have to run for at least 45 minutes.

I have to practice at least 90 minutes.

I have to ski at least 100,000 feet of elevation in 6 days.

Sound familiar?

Gulp. Yes. It’s no surprise that a mental ninja warrior competition took shape in my head about a week before our ski vacation departure:

A week away? right after thanksgiving and before christmas? this is going to totally f–k up my practice! I’m just getting close to second series glory! My legs finally feel like they belong behind my head. We’ll get back and then i’ll have family exploding all over the place along with Christmas music, shopping, wrapping paper and….

You get the point. Indeed, the last time I went skiing I barely practiced at all, save for an apres ski vinyasa class and an afternoon partial primary. That was it for an eight-day period. I rationalized it this way: (a) I loved skiing and (b) given that I couldn’t do a “full practice” (aka 90 minutes) on a hard floor (aka not on vacation rental cushy rug) in quiet and stillness (aka without small child bounding about with loud music blaring) — it wasn’t worth doing at all. This myopic calculation also colored my two-week trip to Montana this past summer, during which I practiced twice — the only two days I could manage at least a full primary (aka 90 minutes).

In some ways it’s wonderful that on those trips I delved wholeheartedly into the family vacation. But after this most recent trip, I see that I was cheating myself and maybe even those around me with an overly boxed-in notion of what counts as “practice.”

Maybe it’s because I’ve practiced so long by myself, maybe it’s that I’ve grown up, maybe it’s that I’m more secure in myself– but this trip thigns went  differently. Everyday we woke  early, all of us. Everyday I laid my mat on a fluffy, cushy rug (actually a few days I didn’t even have my mat but went ahead anyway) and practiced — just surya A &B and some closing, maybe a smattering of standing postures, and aw hell, I threw in some handstands for fun (as well as to counteract the constant state of flexion the ski position put me in). Everyday Dora the Explorer sang her mindbogglingly catchy tunes while I breathed. Everyday my little one jumped like a frog alongside my mat. Everyday I practiced in tattered long john pants and pajama t-shirt. Everyday I took a few minutes to meditate, even as noise swirled all around me. Everyday I enmeshed a bit of practice into the rhythm of our day, without pushing on my husband’s or my daughter’s time. Everyday I practiced about 20-30 minutes, tops, before heading out to ski all day.

In other words, I did a practice that by my own “zealous” standards simply did not count.

Here’s the thing: During these brief practices, I savored every minute. After skiing, I could feel each downward dog smoothing knots in my calves, the upward dogs opening my front body, the lengthening of the first samastitihi countering the shortening of my ski position. These practices set me up for great skiing and for great being. How do I know? Ok, so one day I didn’t practice at all–  and it was the only day the whole vacation I felt “off.” I don’t mean physically–I mean in my interactions with my family. David Robson is right: No practice is ever wasted.

As for “counting” — unlike previous holidays where I abandoned practice because I couldn’t do it exactly as I wanted to, when I returned home to my mat this time, it didn’t feel like I’d had a break. I didn’t feel this huge gulf separating where I was post-vacation from where I had been before. I came back to practice like I’d never really left.

Because, in truth, I hadn’t. When we encountered challenging mountain terrain my ski instructor, Andrea, said: “you ski the snow. don’t let the snow ski you.” For a long time I’ve allowed a misguided, narrow “all or nothing mentality” about ashtanga yoga to practice me, instead of allowing me to practice the yoga. It turns out that maybe what counts most is the practice that serves you most in your life, wherever you are.

Now that’s something to be zealous about.