Metta: Pass it on.

From all the flashing lights, you can tell it’s a bad accident.

Fire trucks. Ambulance. Police cars.

I wait a few seconds as all the cars finally inch forward. A horn beeps—long, disruptive, angry. In my rearview, the driver behind me throws up his hands. We are bumper to bumper. Packed in like sardines. Save three yards, there is nowhere to go.

One more peek. He looks like he is about to snap, and I find myself wondering: Is he impatient...just because? Is it his ego? Or does something else have him at wit's end?

The point is, we never know what people are walking (or driving) around with. My friend Sara calls them bricks. Doesn't matter if it's illness, depression or some other problem, we all carry weight on our shoulders. Burdens that are often invisible to the eye.

Metta. Loving kindness. Send it someone’s way.

9-1-1-ing through life.

All sets of feet thudded to the front of the mat.

The sound rose up from the wood floor. Loud. Anti-yogi. Like movers dropping furniture to the ground.

Say “hop forward” to a class in plank pose, and this is what happens.

But we jump into our lives that way too. Most of us move like we’re dispatching an emergency response team. We speed carelessly through tasks that will get us to the next best thing. Type the keyboard harshly. Toss things in the trunk. Slam the door. Stack precious dishes without care. Clanking. Clattering. Making lots of unnecessary noise.

It was just after the foot thunder when the instructor's voice echoed softly through the room. “Do not act haphazardly,” Roger advised us in that soft, knowing way of his.

Isn't that something to think about? When you act with intention, it's next to impossible to rush. In purposefulness, everything has a purpose.

Ahimsa.

A few months ago, I stood by the kitchen sink slicing into a honey mango. Across the counter top next to me marched a little black bug. Tiny. Barely bigger than a pin.

Without a thought, I reached down and flattened him with my fingertip.

If I had to guess, I'd say that we all grew up smooshing the insects in our homes. Now, it's just reflexive. Reactionary. Not even on our radar. But does this make it okay?

Even though a smoosh here or there may seem minute in the scheme of things, it's really not. Ahimsa—another yama—is the practice of nonviolence and non-harm. Ahimsa says we should be compassionate. On scales grand...and small.

To me, ahimsa it is about two things. First, it is patience. With ourselves and others. A deep breath when we fail, fall short, or when anger, slowness, or frustration has us issuing prejudices. It is a little softness when it is easier to dislike, to speak strident words, or to chastise someone whose life choices are different than our own.

Secondly, ahimsa is how we choose to view the rest of the world. We are all here purposefully and we each have purpose. Building hierarchies around whom we bestow kindness on is wrong. Plants, people, animals, and, yes, even tiny black bugs, are on the same level. Living. And they each deserve to go about their path. Unharmed.

Asteya.

Asteya is a Sanskrit word, one of the yamas of yoga (codes for living). In English, it translates to "non-stealing." I remember when I first heard it a few months ago. I was settled on a bolster in teacher training class, and my first auto-thoughts were: "Don't take candy from a drugstore. Don't steal music offline. Don't rob a bank. Got it."

It was right about then that my teacher issued a caution: Asteya is not limited to physical actions. Yes, we shouldn't take material things that are not our own. But there are countless other ways we can and do steal.

Think about it: When someone tells you a story, do you piggyback? Tell your own story? You got a promotion? I once did too. Oh, you've been to Europe? I have too.

Culturally, I think we've all come to see this as sharing. But is it? Or are we stealing someone else's joy?