Heart Full

I was rushing off to yoga class the other day, when a good friend of mine half asked and half stated, ” why bother, you don’t even get much of a workout.” Emotions, explanations, and excuses bubbled up, thankfully none came out. I paused.

They say a yogi counts their life, not by years, but by breaths. How was mine doing? What was its’ quality? The first clear memory I have of my breath was as an adolescent, twelve years old, a sprinter on my middle school track team. As a sprinter, I often found I was out of breath, running constantly to catch up with it, and the other runners. Later, as a cross country runner, I learned to conserve and regulate my breath. This was the last time I remember being kind to my breath. By the time I was in college, I learned the art of procrastination, barely making it to class on time by running up 10 flights of stairs, heaving as I took my seat, out of breath. Staying up all night driven by caffeine, and “rewarding” myself with cigarette breaks, polluting my breath.

A decade later, my body gave up on all nighters, yet I was still polluting my breath, and admittedly most mornings driven by caffeine. I would like to say that as soon as I had embarked on my yogic journey that these things stopped, that yoga miraculously changed me, but it didn’t. I can say that the deeper I follow this path, the more desires I’m able to overcome, or channel to productive expressions. I don’t smoke anymore, and I’m slowly weaning off the caffeine. I’m trying to improve my diet, but I’m keeping it real, the miracle of my change won’t happen over night, and I’m not going to set myself up for that disappointment.

Having left the relationship with my breath over a decade ago, I’ve spent the better part of a year getting reacquainted. I’ve been surprised by it’s fragility, and warmed by its’ healing as it weaves through my body. Every inhalation is an opportunity to participate in my life and in this world more. It’s a rare opportunity that I won’t take for granted again.

So as I turned to my friend carefully considering which answer to give, I found the honest one was the best one, “I’m going to learn how to breathe.” The words awkwardly hung between us, I figure I’ll get a follow up from her soon. I’m hopeful she’ll want more, who knows what can happen with a little bit of curiosity, and besides the workout is in fact awesome. Bonus.

Deciding to do the Teacher Training program is an important decision in every yogini’s life. Even before the first day of class, it’s clear that it’s going to require commitment, determination, all of your eneregy, and a certain degree of political panache as you sidestep family and friends for your weekly rendevous with the mat. More important than this however, is deciding on a teacher.

To most, my choice seemed intuitive, I chose to do my training at the studio I’ve been attending for the past year. I liked the community, and progressively the studio has become my home-away-from-home. Despite all this, it wasn’t an easy choice to make. New York City boasts far more famous studios, with world renowned teacher training programs. I had moved by the time the training started, so the studio was no longer a convenient 3 blocks from home, but more than 80 blocks uptown. And which teacher would best suit my needs? A world famous one, a man, a woman, how experienced? I trolled through all the teacher training literature from NYC studios, balancing how much I could pay vs. what they were offering, but I kept coming back to New York Yoga.

I discovered I wanted to learn with Kristin, that I admired her style, keen observations, serenity, and most importantly her humanity. I felt she wasn’t born perfect, that she had to earn her marevlous ability, and her asanas (postures) were more a testimony to her determination. Between her dharmas (story-telling insights) were glimpses of a quirky sense of humor, and echoes of a colorful past life that probably reflected my current one. She knew where I was coming from, and perhaps that knowledge is what has always enabled her to to clearly show me the next steps.

Knowing what I know now, I’m confident in my decision. Maybe other programs are more prestigious, rigorous, and encompassing. But for me, this program is the right one, because this teacher for me, is the right one.

Everyone has an embarrassing moment in their life, some of us are so blessed as to have more than one, and others still, so many that counting is impossible. These moments have been some of the most enlightening experiences for me, yet with single-minded determination I push the embarrassing weeds of my life into the dark corners of my mind.

Then, like clock work, just when I’m beginning to believe that I have this life-thing under control, my nemesis (who is no longer my brother) reminds I have nothing. What I have managed to acquire instead, is not control, or “ease” but actually ego. We’ll take this past weekend as Exihbit A.

I was in my usual Sunday morning class, All Levels Vinyasa. I had barely arrived on time, sleep was still clawing at my eyes, but I was managing to ground myself with every touch of the mat. I felt my practice was strengthening, I thought for a few breaths I was getting better, maybe I finally deserved to be where I was, at the front of the class. I was feeling so confident about myself and my practice that when it came time to headstand , I didn’t think twice. I had done it dozens of times, and even if my variant resembles more of a broken pencil than a true headstand I was fairly stable in my extended-egg pose. Besides, I had done it just last week in class, it was no problem, today was MY day.

I rolled in and up, feeling secure and aligned. My inverted-squat pose was stable, I felt comfortable enough to extend. For two glorious seconds, all was right in my upside down world. Then against every fibre in my body, my hips shifted, and the inverted egg cracked, I tumbled with the most blood-curdling kind of crash, the kind that could only happen at-the-front-of-the-class. My well deserved place.

Leslie (another teacher-in-training) rushed across the room, I sensed her coming as I was crashing. I looked up at her, a disoriented mess on the floor, thankfully unhurt. She seemed genuinely concerned, but quickly saw that at least physically I was unharmed, “It’s OK”, I sighed, “just my ego” I added silently. And it really was, my ego, because if I had kept my honestly about my practice, I’d have known, I was coming into it full of my “I-ntention”.

After class Kristin came over, in her comforting way. My last mortifying moment came out of its’ dark corner, and I remembered. It was also in her class, at the front of the room, quite possibly worse than this last one. It was a defining moment for me, that I had pushed aside, one of the most important reasons why I chose to be in her class. She keeps it real, she empathizes, she makes you laugh, and then she makes you understand.

I assisted my first class this past weekend. I was so nervous my palms were in the family of balmy-badness. I thought I wouldn’t have a problem assisting, I had been assisted myself many times, plus countless massages, dance classes in my youth, touching – strange as that may sound, wasn’t a problem for me. So I thought.

Maybe it had been too many sober years since I touched a total stranger. Maybe I DID have a problem with touching people, I just hadn’t realized it until this oh-so-perfect moment. Possibly all of the above.

The class started off easy enough, I was seated in a cross legged position at the front, and with premature pride, mimicking my guru’s moves and instruction, just as I had done in class countless other times. I felt at ease in the front of the class, it reminded me of my dance classes as a child, and when you did a movement particularly well, you were put in the front to demonstrate, we all secretly lived for that moment. This, would be just-like-that. Great.

At some point too soon, my guru stopped making movements in the front of the class, she started pacing around the room, expertly looking at her students, and weaving between their bodies. I stood frozen. My mind assaulted with thoughts, where should I move, is there enough space, how to move between these people without, stepping, tripping, or somehow kicking them? And if I couldn’t even move between them, dear god, HOW was I going to touch them?

With something more like a prayer than an inhale, I gathered my scattered thoughts and fumbled towards a willing participant in my training. I tried to breathe calmness into my mind as my balmy hands made contact. Internally kicking myself, I KNEW she felt my nervousness. I spiraled into an out-of-body experience, recalling all those times when I had been assisted by student trainees, always wondering why THEY were afraid to touch me and apply pressure. And as my wimpy balmy hands shuffled about her back, I knew she was thinking the same thing. Mercifully the posture (asana) ended, I had an excuse to move on.

The remainder of the class moved along similar lines. Mostly me being nervous, students politely acquiescing. At some point I got a little better. And maybe one or two students got something more than a vague sense of comforting confusion. I paced up and down my self selected corridor of bodies, picking the same students to touch, disregarding all the “touch one, touch everyone” lesson we learned in class, I wasn’t about to touch the BOYS!

By the end, I expected their disappointment but instead found smiles, “thank yous”, and an invisible touch that let me know it was OK, and I could come again.