Unwritten Stories

Anne and her son, Ben

“Today is where your book begins. The rest is still unwritten. ~ Unwritten, Natasha Bedingfield

My son was home for a holiday, and we had the rare occasion to tool around town, having lunch and the chance to walk and shop in the sunshine of the first warm day of the season.

I have no place I have to be, he exclaimed, grateful for such unusual circumstances. There’s nothing I have to be doing right now.

We stopped in a refurbished firehouse that was home to a cool, new shoe store. The interior was designed like an old library, and as we sat down on a plush, oversized couch, I pointed out several shelves of blank books, none of which had covers, words or titles.

Look, I said. None of the books are written. They’re all blank.

My son was busy talking to the salesman. Turns out, they were close in age and knew some of the same people from a few years back.

So, to answer me, my son was really on another subject.

You know, I find myself feeling nostalgic for when I was a few years younger, he said, while holding a shoe in his hand. And I know that means I’m going to feel the same way later about this time now.

I used the years I had on him and those blank books as vantage points, telling him that’s how it goes, that the challenge lies in being present, because we can always reminisce about our past stories even as we anticipate those ahead.

I think we all have a story we tell ourselves. It’s how we outline our lives, determining who we’ve been and where we think we’re going. I’m grateful that my son was already figuring this out, there in the shoe store, because it’s taken me quite some time to do so for myself.

For some reason, it’s taken the practice of yoga to unfold my story.

For a long time, I kept my story from most others and even from myself. In fact, for a long time, I couldn’t even find the words for it. It was like one of those blank books high on a shelf, and having it out of reach like that allowed me to sit in a sort of stillness for quite a while.

And then came yoga, and I started to move.

It was weird at first, and I was pretty self-conscious. Practicing took a lot of encouragement and a lot of perseverance before it settled into my bones and became a part of me.

But over time, it was as if each pose lifted a piece of my story off the shelf and brought it to eye level, demanding a read, a critique, a review.

Now I’m more of an open book, almost the opposite of me. And I’m writing. A little here and a little there, I’m letting myself be known. I write about yoga and before I know it, I’m writing about myself.

And it’s in this way that I’m discovering my story, my take on who I was and how I got to be where I am, even if I’m not always so sure of where I’m going.

And I don’t think I’m alone in this, either, in the discovery of the story that I myself am living. I think others do this in their own time, too. For so many of the people who have been reading me have also been talking to me, letting me in on what about my story connects to them, and how they welcome the words that articulate their own.

But now I’ve also come to understand that oftentimes the stories we tell ourselves can be limiting. It can be compelling to identify with only one and then stick with it. The outline may be complete, and it can even be fleshed out with a good bit of drama and some colorful characters, too. But, of course, the ending then is always the same, especially if it’s autobiographical.

So, while comfort can often be found in telling myself the same tale over and over, after a while, it’s probably time for a new one, for something unwritten.

The other night, I attended a Rocket yoga class. I’ve come to love this style of yoga born from Ashtanga.  It’s sequential and linear, and it’s become a part of my story three times a week. This one I don’t mind re-reading, and its pages are well-worn from multiple practices.

I arrive on the late side and was the last to stand at the top of my mat to await the instructor’s narrative. I know how it begins, but tonight the words are different. We’re told that we’ll be practicing Budokon instead, a mix of yoga and martial arts, another story altogether.

The practice is intense and different. Where Rocket is linear, Budokon is circular. I couldn’t anticipate any of it, and each pose required a new and concentrated effort.

At the end, we lay in Savasana, the final resting pose.

Tonight, you got something you didn’t expect, the instructor said as we lay there. Check in with yourselves to see how that feels.

And I realized it felt pretty good.

Savasana is followed by a request to turn onto our right sides, pulling our knees into a fetal position. This part of the practice symbolizes rebirth, and all of the adults in the room curl up like newborns before rising to a seated position.

And as I roll onto my side, I have a thought. It occurs to me that all of us are not just the stories we tell ourselves. We also get to be our unwritten stories.

Rolling to the right is like turning the page to the unexpected, and this can be done at any time, even in the middle of a shoe store or at the beginning of a class.

And for me, it’s the practice that shows how this newly turned page might be blank but can be filled with hope.

In closing, I place my hands at forehead center and join the others in bowing forward, thanking the teacher within by sharing the word, Namaste.

And as is so often the case, I’m filled with so much gratitude that it takes a moment to come up from my bow. I linger there, thankful for finally finding the voice to my story, for having the space to reread it as often as I do, and for the chance to write a new one, too.

Muscles

Yoga is like a long car ride, and I feel like the kid in the back seat asking, "When are we gonna get there?"

I’m thinking I need some more muscles.

Not necessarily big ones, just more than I’ve got.

I remember when I started yoga, I stood in a studio with a group of women who had probably been working out most of their days.

It was day one for me.

Needless to say, it was pretty intimidating to keep coming back, but I did and it was a good thing. The practice has redefined me, literally.

Now I’ve got some muscles, and they've appeared in much the same way as with most things in yoga -- they kind of crept up on me. Seems like suddenly, there they were. One day, the mirror showed me muscles in my arms, my stomach, my legs, my back.

But the more I try to advance, the more I feel my limits. In one class in particular, I spend lots of time thinking if only I was stronger, I would get this.

This being the arm balances, the handstands, the staying on one side with the weight in one leg while doing all sorts of things before moving to the other side.

I mentioned lifting some weights to the instructor after class one day. I’m thinking I’m not strong enough, I said.

You can if you want, she replied, telling me that she did, too. But you are strong!

Then I admitted to feeling scrawny, and she suggested I email her to get rid of the crazies. But it’s the crazies that make me keep coming back. They are what make me want to go upside down, to lift myself up on my hands with my legs here and there.

I am learning that, as with most things in life, the strength has to come from the core.

The instructor talks about zipping it up and putting the belly button to the spine. She calls to us about our upward flying locks when we lift and balance and hang.

Still, in this class, I feel my edge -- the place where I know I need to add something to what I’m doing, so I can do more.

The other day, we were in Navasana, or Boat pose. Sitting on our tail bones, our bodies are in a V shape with our legs and backs straight and our feet in line with our noses. Our hands reach up.

We hold for a count of five.

Then, we cross, lock and lift – placing our hands down on either side, crossing our legs and lifting ourselves off the mat, swinging our feet underneath us. Ultimately, we are supposed to land in Handstand, swinging ourselves under and through and unfolding into the inversion.

We’re heading to Handstand here, the instructor says. It doesn’t matter if you’re there yet. Some of us will take another day or another month or another 10 years.

Huh?

No one really calls out in this class but, on hearing this, I stood up.

What? I blurted out. Do you know how old I’ll be in 10 years?!?

It doesn’t matter how old you are, the instructor replied. It matters how strong you are.

I have these little purple weights at home. They are eight pounds each. And I have some metal ones that are five pounds each. And some little red three pounders. Surely something can be done with them.

This yoga is called The Rocket. It’s from a branch of yoga called Ashtanga, a style where the student is given a sequence of poses, the progression through which has to be done in order. The student cannot move to the next pose unless the previous one is accomplished.

Rocket yoga came about in the 1980s, and it teaches some of these poses without having to satisfy any prerequisites. Bob Weir of the Grateful Dead dubbed it The Rocket because, in his words, You get there faster.

So, in this class, it often feels like day one again.

I am in there with those who have been there awhile. And like when I first started yoga, it can be quite intimidating but, like before, I keep coming back. And the progress is slow.

So my plan is to lift those purple weights, even though I think the key to my progression lies more in the strength of my core.

I am being instructed, like with anything else, to look inside to my very center.

Still, I kind of want to rocket through that part, too. I keep waiting to hear some kind of hint about how to better lift up. Surely, I might be missing some kind of clue.

But the only way to fly is to lock and lift. And there’s no shortcut to doing that. The strength in my core has to build in its own time.

So I keep practicing my lock and practicing my patience.

And hopefully, if I’m locked and lucky, I’ll be able to go back and through and upside down before the 10 year mark.

Anne is the author of  Unfold Your Mat, Unfold Yourself​ and is published on Huffington Post and Elephant Journal. Connect with Anne on her blog, Facebook and Twitter.​​