Snuggling with my edge

The edge to which I refer is a yoga term.  It is the point you reach when you can go no further.  Your body is stretched to it's limit.  The edge, once you find it, is where you stay to breathe.  Working inside your edge sounds easier than it is.  The space at the end of your capacity can be painful, it can be brutal, it's the place you find your body shaking, it's a hair's breadth to tears or relief. With my lame, damaged body the edge is precarious.  I'm an athlete at heart, my instinct is to find the breaking point and move to the place right past it.  Chronic pain tames that compulsion, living gently in this body is a choice I make.  Yoga is a great physical outlet because it is all about the present, the body in that moment.  I drift between careful and reckless, my yoga practice is about a maturing understanding that is neither.  I've developed a new intuitive sense of self that recognizes the always moving edge more easily.  Today I was reflecting on the metaphysical edges and my dull, almost nonexistent sensitivity to them.  When have I pushed too far in demanding strength or courage in the face of disappoint?  When do I sink too quickly into despair?  I had an interview today for something that was promising.  After the call, I was a little disappointed.  I tried to rally the faith I wrote about yesterday. I saw its edge, I stretched into it and it hurt.  I knew that I wouldn't hold that space forever, the disappointment would fade, the anxiety would subside, something would change.  While snuggling up to that edge wasn't joyous, it didn't kill me either.  I'm still a little bummed but a few hours of holding a posture of near teary is about all I can take.  Time to let that go and move on.  That's the best part of the edge, you can chose to let go and cook dinner for a dear old friend instead.