My mother never practiced yoga.
She never studied comparative religions
or sought to find herself in the silence
of rustic mountain retreats.

Her mudra was a cigarette poised
between the fingers of her right hand
and a coffee cup cradled in her left.

Her mantra was simple.
With a slow exhalation,
she would bring it forth
from the silence–
“You just never know…”

I invoke her wisdom
when a driver cuts me off in traffic
and I want to feel compassion
instead of rage—
You just never know where he’s going
or why he’s racing to get there.

I seek her grace
when I feel inclined to roll my eyes
at a woman in the supermarket
holding up the line while she fumbles
with a bundle of coupons—
You just never know if her children
had enough to eat last night.

I think of her when I look at
myself in the mirror
stretching my limbs
in a sun salutation,
her voice urging me
to create space for compassion.