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.
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.