I like quiet. I know people who can't work or fall asleep without music, tv, or other external sound, but that's not me. When puttering around the house, it usually doesn't occur to me to set a soundtrack. I may have NPR on quietly in the background, but that's about it. Don't get me wrong, there are times when I want music on - loud - but they're less frequent these days. Yin superstar Paul Grilley subtitled his Yin Yoga book "Outline of a Quiet Practice", and yin is supposed to be just that. The practice, in which deep stretches are held for several l o n g minutes on each side, means the teacher can briefly cue students into the pose and then... stop talking. In the first 30 seconds or so, it's usually not much of a challenge to relax into the silence and into the posture. But after minute 3 or 4 (give or take), we can no longer ignore the messages our minds are trying to send us. Our minds might even be yelling at us to pay attention (right now!!). They might be saying, "WHY are we still here? Isn't it time to come out of this now? I'm bored. What's for dinner? Why didn't Bill return my text? Is he mad at me? Where does he get off? Are we STILL in this pose?" and so on. Even someone like me, who enjoys silence, is challenged by the activity of the monkey mind during those long quiet yin holds. And for those of us who thrive on external stimulus, the practice can be incredibly difficult. Yet, we remind ourselves that we're safe, we're (relatively) comfortable, and we have everything that we need. We will come out of the pose, eventually. But while we're here, we have the opportunity to practice witnessing and, maybe, controlling the vacillations of the mind. We may then realize how much internal chatter accompanies and directs our everyday lives. And that's appropriate, to some extent. It's just that we often ignore or interpret as truth what's going on up there. A mindful yin practice trains us to notice this stream of chatter so that we can eventually drop the messages that don't serve us. So, what does this have to do with ashtanga? Many describe ashtanga as a moving meditation, a means of staying completely present for the 1.5+ hour practice. And I believe ashtanga lives up to that. But - without diminishing the transformative power of ashtanga - I would say that it's much easier to stay focused and present when there's something new (and, generally, pretty physically challenging) to do every five breaths. We're confronted with our physical limitations and, sometimes, limiting self-talk, but there's something very different and equally transformative about dangling alone with your thoughts for minutes at a time. In my opinion, it serves us as ashtangis and yoga practitioners to experience both types of transformation, and to bring them both into our everyday lives. So far, I've ignored the physical benefits of adding some yin to a regular yang- (active) style practice, but they are immense. In short, yin practice stimulates growth of the connective tissues around the joints, which allows us to gain flexibility to balance the strength that we build in ashtanga. Of course, we build flexibility in ashtanga practice, too, but yin accomplishes more in a shorter period of time. Intrigued? Drop in to Yin at Living Yoga Center on Tuesday nights at 7:15! When I started practicing yoga, my body adapted quickly and easily to the physical demands I placed on it. I had been a gymnast as a child, and the flexibility came back quickly. I was blessed with long limbs and a slender frame, which made binds and, really, most poses pretty easy for me. This physical facility, and my dedication to a daily practice, meant I progressed quickly through the ashtanga primary and intermediate series under the guidance of my teacher. I started adjusting bodies before I became a full-fledged teacher, and I learned that not all bodies were like mine. Many struggled with the physical practice of ashtanga and other forms of yoga, limited by their basic anatomical structure, flexibility, or past injury. I learned to modify my adjustments and, eventually, my teaching according to the real bodies in the room, not the physical ideal. But my understanding of the limitations felt by those "real bodies" was superficial. Until my low back (SI joint) popped in supta kurmasana - a pose I'd practiced daily for years before my joint slipped out of place that first time - I took for granted that I (and my students) could eventually do any pose with enough practice. Lying immobile on the floor in that crowded studio, I let out a primeval wail and sobbed. I cried in pain, but also for the gut-level knowledge that my practice as I knew it had just fundamentally changed. On the surface, it hadn't changed that much. I babied my back for a couple of months, but things started getting easier and poses started coming back. But below the surface, there was the knowledge that it could happen again (and it did, from time to time thereafter). I carried the new knowledge that my body was vulnerable. I became a little more careful, and a little bit fearful. While this felt like a loss, it also resulted in a greater appreciation of what many of my students bring to their practice on a daily basis. I could relate, and I could help them modify. This was the gift of my injury. Fast forward to early summer of 2013. I hadn't been practicing much, as I was busy with new motherhood, but when I fell off my bike and broke my left wrist in three places, my mind instantly went to how this would affect my practice (and how I wouldn't be able to lift my baby for weeks). I required surgery and had a titanium plate and seven screws implanted into my body. I wasn't coming back from this one anytime soon. Down dog? Up dog? Chaturanga? All pretty wrist-intensive. There was that familiar fear, that vulnerability, again. And, this time, the injury turned into a convenient excuse to back off my practice even more than I already had. Appropriate, to some extent, but it felt like an excuse nonetheless. Despite my excuses, I eventually got back on my mat - albeit less regularly than I knew I "should" to strengthen my wrist. But slowly, I began to heal. And I gained a real appreciation for the resilience of the human body. My teacher used to tell me I would become a better teacher after I experienced a physical limitation, and now I understand what he meant. Through my injuries, I have glimpsed the vulnerability, fear, and mental attitude that keep would-be students off their mats. And I have gained a deeper appreciation of the bravery, determination, and dedication that some of us must summon to practice. I never thought I'd say it, but I am grateful for my injuries and for this insight. And I am proud of you, dear students, for all you do to get on your mats. Keep coming back. Motherhood has turned my yoga practice on its head, in many ways. The most obvious is that I have much less time to focus on myself and my practice. Gone are the days when I could spend a leisurely two hours every morning progressing through the primary and intermediate ashtanga series, followed by an hour-long walk with my dog, and perhaps another yoga class in the evening. I look back fondly on that time of my life, but I can't go back. In many ways, I don't want to. I am giving myself to my new role as mama, and am satisfied with the time I spend on my mat at home now. Less than pre-baby and pre-wrist injury, to be sure, but I'm back at it and feeling great. And, having taken a break and bounced back, I am reassured to know that my physical practice will always be there for me when I need it. Since the days my daughter was first standing on her own, she has been turning herself upside down in a modified down dog. We can tell her, "go upside down!", and she'll bend at the waist, place her hands and head on the floor, and peer between her feet, flashing her dimples. My daughter has turned my life upside down, but I wouldn't have it any other way. |
LQ YogaExploring the intersection of yoga, motherhood, relationships, and life off the mat. Archives
August 2014
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