Stillness

How can I possibly be inconspicuous when my flow is so ridiculous? ~ I’ll Be Around, Cee-lo Green

I was at an evening yoga class with a guest instructor who arrived with a great big welcome, his greeting warming the room, and his smile inviting many in return.

This is a Level Two class, he announced. So, what would you like to work on?

With each answer, he jokingly upped the ante, saying, Oh, hips? That’s a 3.23 class!. Inversions? That’s a 5.67 class! Backbends? That’s a 10.789 class!

He asked us what we wanted and got us laughing when we answered, promising us a high energy class and lifting us with that of his own before landing the room in a quiet meditation with a poem and a chant. 

I was happy to be there, sitting next to a friend who was leaving town and among others I knew as well. I felt cozy as evening fell outside the windows, darkening the room in a stillness filled with the rhythmic voice of the instructor.

I didn’t really take in any of the poem or understand the chant; rather, it was as if the sound of his words blanketed my busy thoughts, tucking them away for the night and settling me into a stillness usually found in the final resting pose of Savasana.

It was as though we were starting at the end, and then what followed was the middle!

The instructor popped up from his seated position, turned on the music and moved us directly into Boat Pose, a pose that works on the abs and is usually found halfway through the class. After more ab work, we moved into an early Crow, balancing on our hands with our knees tucked as high above the backs of our arms as possible.

And then we started to flow, and he even threw in a few handstands between warrior poses. He danced to the music and bounced around the room, adjusting us here and there and singing along, too, as his energy lifted us again before landing the room in the quiet of Warrior Two.

And there we held the pose.

With the others, I settled again into stillness, but this time with much more effort as he implored us to take the pose even deeper. He ran through a checklist, asking us to see every part of our bodies as he outlined the view of our arms, our legs, our bellies, our muscles and more.

I even want you to see the back of your knee, he said. I want you to see your blind spots.

There is something about expending lots of energy while being still. Somehow, everything seems to make sense in the stillness, like understanding the words to a chant with no knowledge of the language.

And it’s in this way that I saw myself as instructed, and I at once remembered an astrologer telling me the stars were such that I should walk the King’s Highway. When I asked for an explanation, I was told that I was not to sit on the side, that I was meant to be seen.

My muscles were working hard, and I felt so alert that it seemed as if I could see out of every pore. And I was so still that I found myself strong enough to look at my blind spots and to understand that it’s okay to be seen. I even pictured the back of my knee.

We held the pose still longer, and the energy was as high as we had been in our handstands earlier in the practice. 

I want you to do this pose as if it’s the last yoga pose you’ll ever do, he said.

This brought some giggles to the room, but he held his ground in much the same way as we held the pose.

Seriously, he said, countering with his smile. This could be the last time you’ll ever do yoga. There is no tomorrow.

And so there I was, standing still in what turned out to be the Just Now, where nothing is hidden if you are brave enough to look. It was a liberating place to be, among my fellow warriors with no tomorrow, doing all that mattered in the moment, and seeing all of myself from the inside out.

We broke the pose and flowed once more, the music never having stopped, and the instructor continuing his beat around the room, singing and dancing and asking us to see ourselves, and somehow getting us to do just that by sending us from stillness to flow and stillness to flow.

Soon after, we moved into reverse side angle. I stepped one foot in front of the other and twisted to my left, placing my right hand to the mat and reaching the other to the ceiling. And as I turned my torso to the side, my eyes passed the window, and I saw a single star, like an eye in the sky blinking back at me.

I gazed at the star, and it stared back, both of us seeing the other in the clarity of the stillness that was the Just Now.

But before I knew it, the flow was upon us again, and I averted my eyes, flowing all the way to the end of the class, until the room finally settled into its sweat and its breath and another poem and another chant.

And I lay there in stillness against the rhythm of the words, and I felt free in the bravery of being bare enough to be seen by even me.

And so when I left the class, I thanked the instructor and, although I know he knows there’s no tomorrow, I asked him to please come back again as if there was.

Power

 

I used to practice in front of mirrors.  

I liked it. It reminded me of my long ago dance classes. And it gave me a larger sense of the room because I could look forward and see behind me. 

But for awhile now, I’ve been practicing without the mirrors. At first, it was a little unsettling. At one studio, I found myself looking into the eyes of those facing me. In another, I found myself staring at a wall. In still another, I found myself looking out a window onto the busy city streets. 

After a while, though, the weirdness went away. 

Now, it’s not so freaky to look someone in the eye across the room. And the cracks and the slats in the walls and windows serve as my stare points and help me find my balance. The city streets outside the windows are no longer a distraction, and I’ve even watched the rain fly sideways across the floor-to-ceiling windows as I flowed inside while it thundered outside. 

I don’t miss the mirrors now and no longer need to look forward to see what’s behind me.  

So now the image of my practice is mostly in my mind, which is sometimes a tumultuous place. Sometimes, the person in there is tough when the practice is rough and wonders why I’m not stronger or more flexible, why I can’t catch the balance or catch more air.  

And so it was with wonder that I viewed a video of a class of one of my instructors. There’s a beautiful soundtrack, and I can’t hear anything that was going on in my mind. This video is a mirror of the practice, and all I see in its reflection is the power and grace of everyone in it.  

This video translates the almost tangible power of flow. Watching it, I can feel the strength captured in the movements, the flexibility found in the folds and the bravery beneath the balances.  

It was a beautiful practice that provided both power and peace. 

 

 

The other night, in yet another practice, we were in rag doll. Our heads hung heavy between our cradled arms as we folded in half. 

Put your head down, the instructor said to the man behind me. He placed his hand on the man’s head and asked, Do you think a lot? 

Yes, I do, the man answered, honesty spilling forth from his fold. 

Well, I think I’m someone who’s been blessed not to think too much, the instructor said. It’s okay to rest your head and just not think. 

And so it goes for me with the practice and the flow. It lets me find my strength while resting my head. It’s always there, the power and the peace. 

And now, I can even watch it on video.

Sweat

Most often, I practice yoga in the morning, but the other day, I practiced at night.

I arrived dressed in work heels, work make up and work hair.

I grabbed the keys to the changing room and peeled off the day, putting on my yoga pants and top and taking off the shoes I had been in since 7:30 a.m.

It had been a long day, but something was still missing.

I had not yet sweat!

Before yoga, I had never worked out. I was raised to be a lady, and being a lady and sweating never quite equated for me.

And the last thing I would have wanted to do, at the beginning or at the end of a day, was exercise.

But the sweat! I cannot explain how much I love it! How good it feels to work my body hard, so every muscle is engaged, so the sweat pours.

On this particular evening, I arrive late to yoga. I had visited a relative in the hospital and had sat with him for a bit after work. I did not want to rush my visit; my whole family was concerned for him.

I got to the studio with barely minutes to spare and changed quickly. By the time I entered the room, the music was playing, the class had begun, and I squeezed my mat into a space at the very edge of the crowded room.

I was far from my usual spot up front and close to the middle, and I could not even see the clock. But, I cared not a lick, happy to just to step to my mat and more than content to join in.

Before long, we are flowing. And so is the sweat.

How did we get here so fast? I am always so unaware of the time going by. It rains on my mat as I am brought to that zone by the music and the instruction.

Before I know it, my arms are wet, my back is wet, my face is wet and so is my hair.

In each Vinyasa, or transition, I pop into a Handstand and set my intention on my uncle who was in the hospital, holding the pose as long as possible while watching the drips of sweat speckle my mat below.

In college, my sorority dedicated a song to me, Lionel Richie’s Once, Twice, Three Times a Lady. I think about this when I am upside down and feel the sweat dripping UP my nose.

Doing yoga has been so completely liberating. I started out so very self conscious, and now I just am not.

I do not care what is going on with my hair, if I have to double up my shirt to cool off, or what is with my leftover make up.

Before I know it, we are in the final resting position of Savasana, or Corpse pose. We just lay there on our backs, listening to the music and cooling off.

Not being near the clock, the end has caught me by surprise. I had thought we were only halfway through!

I am soaked, and ready for more.

We end the class in the usual manner, in a seated position with our hands in prayer.

Take in some positive energy, the instructor says, and release what you don't need.

I feel calm yet energized, cool yet hot. I think about white stars falling on my recuperating relative and inhale what I imagine to be the same.

Reluctantly, I roll up my mat and change my clothes.

On the way out, I run into another yogi on her way in.

With her greeting, she mistakes me for the lady I am trying so hard NOT to be.

Look at you! she exclaims. Did you even sweat?

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.​​