Have you ever fallen out of a posture you honestly thought you would nail? Me too. Did it feel like your heart broke just a little? Um, yes, me too again! And then maybe you thought, the yoga must really be working, because how else could something so small break my heart? Then you remember it happened at yoga, so it must mean something.
It’s like that for me sometimes. I find myself reaching for the more meaningful, purpose-driven things in life. I feel accomplished in this new behavior, and it sets me on a journey of inquiry. It’s a sort of dark place, but the darkness is seductive.
Flat like a pancake
In my early days at the studio, I fell out of headstand. I fell hard, too, on a day when I was looking forward to being in the center of the room in that shape. I fell flat like a pancake. It hurt in the physical way (ouch, my back) and in the embarrassing, ego-crushing way too.
Immediately the thoughts rushed in: I suck. How stupid. I’m not ready. This is hard. I can’t. I don’t want to anymore. If you’ve been in that place, you know what I’m talking about. It seduces you so perfectly. Sometimes you want to go to that dark place, because you know it’s meant to turn you into something else. It’s the stuff that cracks your superficial shell, the salt that melts the ice around your cold, cold heart. Our attachment to the postures is both the poison and the antidote. And that is exactly when the magic arrives: in our self-imposed idea of failure, something in us stirs to life.
Dig and shed
There is a small part of you that stays optimistic, so instead of quitting, you work on core strength. When headstand is called, you take dolphin and look on the bright side. You’re of the cup-half-full, everything-happens-for-a-reason mentality. Underneath, though, you think, “Yeah, I’ll never stand on my head like that.”
That doesn’t help, but we do it, because sometimes we need to feel the failure of a thing. Sometimes it’s the only way to stoke the fire for success. The only way to nail headstand is by failing at it many, many times. It’s how we get at the layers suppressing our bliss. So you dig and shed, and dig and shed, through all the successes and failures of headstand and full splits, pigeon and the dreaded plank.
Oh my, I dare say it: patient
One day you notice you’ve built some strength, and you realize you have become, dare I say it, patient. You begin to stand in your new ways and stop hiding your true self. One posture at a time, you redesign your yoga practice. You get to become strong, graceful, flustered, tired, happy, open, flexible and understanding, in whatever degrees and ratios you choose. And it all happens on your mat.
This is the freedom the yogis tell us about: the ability to reside in your true nature. Isn’t that why you practice yoga?
When I first came to Revolution, my heart began breaking in those so-called small ways. It broke again and again, and I just kept coming to class and learning more. I moved as if through mud, and I used my breath. I sat quietly and chanted Krishna’s name. I held warrior shapes, and I grew, expanded and healed. My yoga practice became the rock to cling to when the whirlwind and chaos of life came for me. Through it, we can remain steady. That’s what happens when you have the patience to see your heartbreak all the way through.
