Heart Full

So now it’s over. I have a couple loose ends left, some observations to submit, re-take the test in case I bombed it, but I think I’ll be OK. I know it sounds so rehearsed, and by now I’ve said this phrase so many times in my own life, but really ” I can hardly believe it’s all over”. After anxiety ridden weeks of anticipating my class, imagining every which way it could go wrong, it’s over, and it went well. People seemed to respond to my guidance, and assists. My aunt was (as always) fantastic. She did so well, even moving into Urdhva Dhanurasana on her own. I was deee-lighted. And the girls, the girls I’ve shared the last thirteen weeks with were extraordinary.

Every weekend, not only was I learning something new about yoga, but something new about life from each of the girls in class. And they all, until the very end continued to suprise me with their wisdom, and grace. For example, my last class. I assumed this class would be gentle and meditative, because the teacher-trainee is gentle and thoughtful. After a challenging morning my body ached for a restorative. Instead, I found myself shamelessly sweating and collapsing into child’s pose, somehow manging to resist the draw of the DIY svasana. I could not WAIT for the margarita. Yet even if my body was done, I was so happy and proud of her, and of the class she presented. I liked that it was invigorating, challenging, and yet retained its’ Rose-ness. The other classes I participated in were all uniquely memorable. Probably because each of the girls who presented it is special.

These last three months I felt like I had gone back to highschool, where all of my friends were girls, and we didn’t really have to deal with the complication of boys. Already I miss my weekends with them, and the liveliness thier personalities. And even if we didn’t hang out much during our teacher training, I have a feeling we’ll see each other again outside of the studio if only to:

• Marvel at the length of War and Peace, in Spanish – courtesy of Padmasana’s weekend reading
• Do our first Kaya Yoga cross word puzzle – courtesy of Pincha Mayurasana’s bedside reading.
• Figure out how to start my own small business and survive – courtesy of Ganesh
• Get in the best shape of my life – courtesy of virasana.
• Finally learn how to actually pronounce all the anatomical terms- courtesy of Urdhva Vrkaskana
• Be prepared for any eventuality that may occur in my class, including how to say eka pada rajakapotasana
• Watch bakasana turn into a scorpion, because this is as close as I’ll ever get to actually doing one myself
• Admire hanumanasa’s smile, because everyone else is, except maybe herself.

I can’t recommend my experience enough, or the women who shared it with me. I’m already planning on a reunion.

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.