Flying

Anne flies with instructor Jonathan Ewing (pants by www.vivashaktiyoga.com)

Fly by night, away from here. Change my life again. ~ Fly By Night, Rush

When I was little, my father used to fly me around on his feet.

He’d lay on his back and put his feet on my stomach and lift me into the air like Superman.

Other times, he’d lay on the floor and put up his knees. I’d climb on top and perch there, placing my feet in his hands, driving an imaginary car while I pressed into his palms with my right foot on the gas and my left one on the brakes.

Of course when my children were little I’d do this with them, too, only we’d drive on top of the bed to accommodate the wild turns. In addition to their imaginary stops for donuts, they’d steer recklessly from atop my knees, flying overboard in all directions for wild and crazy landings softened by the mattress.

And now, after all these years, I am flying again! There is something called Acro yoga, and it’s just the flying game all over again for grownups.

The first time I flew was a little over a year ago. It was a Thursday evening, and I arrived early to yoga. There was a young man in the class who was big on Acro yoga, and he was early, too.

He walked into the practice room and without saying anything pointed at me. Your turn!

And he lay on his back and put his feet on my stomach and lifted me into the air like Superman.

It was scarier than I had imagined! I had seen others do this before the start of class, and I thought it’d be a breeze. But I felt so high up! The floor was a long way down!

He guided me from my stomach to a seat atop his feet. I wrapped my legs around each of his, one at a time, and then I let go of his hands.  And I felt as if I could touch the ceiling if I reached up high, but I sat carefully in the air and instead put my hands in prayer. And he rested his hands by his sides and let me stay up there.  

I don’t remember how I returned to my stomach, back to the tops of his feet and parallel to the ground again, but I do remember him telling me to tilt forward, so that my legs lifted to the ceiling and my torso dropped down.

And then he told me to keep diving, and I had to fully trust as I made my way through the air, upside down to vertical. Maybe he placed his hands on my shoulders to finally brace me once I inverted. I don’t remember.

What I do remember is that as I dove forward, balanced only on his feet, I felt a pull in my heart which surprised me.

I’d never felt that before! Flying on my father’s feet came close, but I was too young then to know how special it was to invest any trust. Maybe the pull was just my heart remembering, and that’s why I was able to dip it down so freely. Maybe that’s how my feet lifted up so easily. 

Inverted, I had no choice but to keep fully trusting, and I wound up hovering there, eye to eye with this young man. And then, without missing a beat, I jokingly put my hands on either side of his face.

I love you! I exclaimed, laughing, upside down. And after this I’m going to tell you all my secrets!

Ten minutes of flying, and I was making jokes about love and trust and disclosures! And this surprised me, too, because these three things aren’t really such laughing matters. Truly, my efforts to balance them have been a little haphazard at best.

And that’s created for me a fear of flying, so to speak. It can be a long way down if I dive too fast.
 

It’s more than a year later, and now this same young man is an instructor. And it was another Thursday night at yoga, only this time he was our substitute instructor.

We did our Sun A’s and Sun B’s and moved into early Crows and other balances. Midway through, we were instructed in Supta Virasana, or reclining Hero pose. I sat with my legs bent at the knees, my calves folded against the outsides of my quads. My feet reached around and rested on their shoelace sides, and I lay back on the floor.

Are you okay like this? he asked. I nodded to indicate that all was well, and so he pushed his hands into my quads and lifted himself into Crow pose, taking flight above me.

And, as I did more than a year ago, I jokingly put my hands on either side of his face but this time pinched his cheeks so that he was the one who laughed.

After class I requested another flight. I figured I might be braver by now, that it might not feel so high, that the floor might not seem such a long way down.

So he lay on his back and put his feet on my stomach and lifted me into the air like Superman.
 

And again I moved into a seated position on his feet, and this time around it wasn’t so scary up there. In fact, I lifted my arms from my perch and waved at my friends below.

And then I moved into an Acro Shoulder Stand, inverting while holding his ankles before he caught my shoulders. I almost went overboard, but a fellow yogi stepped up to spot me. And from there I splayed my legs and bent them at the knees, so that I hung from his feet, upside down by my hips.

And then he told me to tuck into a little ball and reach through his legs to grab my own feet. And before I knew it I was spinning above his head as if I were a basketball atop a player’s hands.

Finally, I did my best to lift into a star, inverting into the sky. And I never realized that another yogi had stepped up to spot me, so that when I became a falling star I landed safely on my feet while still shining.

I’m not so sure when the next time will come for me to fly, but I do hope it’s soon. I need to balance and dive and soar, in order to practice all that love and trust and more.

Besides, now that I like it in the air, I’m not so scared to be up there. And that makes me so much lighter, which can only mean that I’ll fly higher. 

Catch Me!

"Upside down. Who's to say what's impossible and can't be found?" ~ Jack Johnson

 

I was in a very hot yoga practice, and we were more than halfway through. The day had only half begun, I was only half-caffeinated, and we were in Eagle Pose. 

For some reason, I’ve been having trouble keeping my balance in Eagle. I try to find a point in front of me to clear my mind, so I don’t even have to think about balancing, but that only makes me think about it all the more, and over I go. 

This day in Eagle, my mind is already moving quickly ahead. Usually, we do Eagle on both sides, right and then left, and then right and left again. Sometimes, after the second time around, we move into bound Warrior III and then into Standing Split.

And then I know what’s coming next. In fact, my mind is already there while I am wrapping myself up in Eagle. At that point, for those of us who want to, we get to pop into handstand or, at least, to try. 

Before practice, I usually attempt a few handstands. I’ve been working on these forever, and now I’m working on them without the wall. And I can never tell when they’re going to show up.  

At best, they’ve been sporadic guests. They arrived this past summer, but then left for the fall. They were home for the holidays, but then left again. I’ve been doing my best to get them to move back in for good. 

And they hate the heat. It’s especially tough to find them in the middle of a hot practice. 

Usually, I have to see things to put them to memory, and I’ve used a lot of visualization to find handstand. In general, I think this is how I learn and process most things. I’ve been doodling since I was little, from pictures in my mind to pictures on the paper. 

Sometimes in handstand, I picture myself being pulled in and up, as I was in a recent workshop. I had been upside down when I saw two feet step under my nose before two hands wrapped themselves around my lower belly and pressed.  

This assist automatically lifted and straightened me beyond where I was. And, when I came down and saw it was the instructor, I told him not only was I surprised not to recognize his feet that I’d been watching for the better part of an hour but, even more so, I was surprised that I had any room left for more lift or straightening.

It also helps to picture my friend who wrote to me while on vacation about the freedom she felt when practicing handstands on a yoga deck. She said all that space outside a crowded studio freed her mind to allow her body to easily achieve handstand. 

And since then, on my way upside down, I visualize lots of space all around and even above, and I imagine my feet reaching upwards beyond the ceiling towards the sky and into the clouds, and this seems to help my whole body follow. 

I also picture my shoulder girdle, which I used to think was between my shoulders and across my back but actually now realize surrounds each shoulder. Going up, I picture my shoulders encased in something strong, so they can stack above my wrists and provide a sturdy base for my torso. 

So, really, there’s an entire artist’s rendering going on in my mind when I go upside down and sometimes even long before I invert.

This day, the paintbrushes start flying in Eagle. And when it comes time to try a few handstands, my palette is already prepared.  

I hop up on my good side. My right leg in the air, I push off lightly with my left and picture my hips stacking, waiting for the feeling that lets me know I have it, that lets me know it’s okay for my left leg to meet my right.  

And, finally, I make the connection, upside down.

But that lightness, that stillness, that space where I pull in my belly for my feet to reach the clouds, eludes me, and I feel my feet start drawing outside the lines, moving further over my hips to the wrong side of the room. 

And in this quiet and hot room, where the only sound is the breath, I distinguish myself without warning, calling out the instructor’s name followed by a plea:

CATCH ME! 

But I never felt his catch because somehow, I catch myself. Somehow, and I don’t know how, I get myself straightened out. 

It seems my panic cleared my mind so my body could do its work.  

The instructor later told me I did it by grabbing the floor with my fingertips and pulling in my core. I had no idea. I couldn’t picture it! 

All I know is that the preparation that started in Eagle that day had blocked my view, making it difficult to see the whole picture. And, in the end, I was somehow able to save myself on instinct. 

This instructor impresses on the class to let go of our stories when we arrive on the mat. We’re not supposed to predetermine the practice. We’re just supposed to be, and we do this through the breath. 

But this day, it takes my panic to make me present, which isn’t exactly the game plan. Even so, learning that I can save myself when I think I need someone to catch me isn’t too bad a takeaway. 

Still, I am leaving the light on for those handstands.  

It’s like they’re not mine, I told this same instructor days earlier. It’s like each time, I’m wondering if they’re going to show up. 

Maybe my mental artwork is more on display than I think, because he just looked at me with a smile and, without words, pointed to his head, making the perfect picture for the next time I go upside down.

 

Silly

 

It’s been almost three years. 

Three years of handstands. 

When I first started yoga, I would not go upside down. I knew I could do it, but it just felt so silly. 

I’d often goof around with my kids and only a couple years earlier, before even finding yoga, I had done a headstand on Skype for my daughter and her college roommates. So, it’s not that I was never silly. It’s just that I was never so in public.  

And the yoga studio counted as being in public. 

Then, one day, it was just my daughter and me in a private lesson. In my mind, this was not public, so upside down I went. 

And then, almost every day thereafter, I only wanted to be upside down. 

Headstands led to forearm stands. Forearm stands led to handstands. I could not get enough and still can’t. 

And now I can’t remember what there was to ever feel so silly about. 

Now I say who cares about being upside down in public? It didn’t matter who was looking the other weekend in New York City on a crowded Sunday afternoon in Battery Park!  

About a year and a half in, I got pretty good at the balance. I could stay up and up and up in handstand, and I felt like a pro. 

But then, I received some new instruction about how to go up in the first place. I was supposed to go up by using my Bhandas, or my core. Kicking up was off the list. Being near the wall was off the list. It was like starting brand new. 

And it felt a little silly to suddenly be back at square one after all this time, and I am so far from whatever a pro might be that it’s silly to even think that could be measured.  

In fact, one girl videotaped the class so she could take it with her on her travels and captured one of my few handstands that have actually worked in all this time.  

I placed my hands under my shoulders. I listened to the instructor tell us to shift forward, to not bend our leg, to claw the floor with our fingertips. 

One try. Two tries. Three, and then four.  

On the fourth try, I felt my hips stack and my core engage while I lifted my leg ever so slowly, up and up and up from the floor to the ceiling. In my mind, I was up forever before standing to regroup and repeat. 

But the camera doesn’t lie.  

My fellow yogi put the clip of my handstand on YouTube, and I was up for all of five seconds. And my regrouping moment is really me unable to keep my amazement at bay as I stood up, quietly exclaiming Yaaaaaaaahhhhhh! and not really knowing what to do with myself (click here to view). 

I learn best in a visual manner. I need to see things or draw them out in order to take them in. And this holds true with handstand. My yogi friends have become my teachers, and I watch their demonstrations, and I listen as the instructor’s words draw the picture of what I’m supposed to do. 

And I’m literal, too. One instructor keeps talking about the shoulder girdle, but I was confused as to what that was. Plus, I keep picturing my grandmother in her blue dress when she says this. As a little girl, I knew a girdle was under there, and I was confused about that, too.  

Another instructor talks about keeping the hands active, pressing into the fingertips if I think I’m going to fall over, and pressing into the palms if I think I’m going to fold. He shows me, but I tell him I need bigger hands. 

And then there’s the fear factor. I’ve been told to play in the grass because there I’ll have no fear, and I’ve been shown how to best fall down so as not to be so scared to go up.  

I’ve been told to integrate my shoulders, and it really helps to watch one of the yogis roll back her shoulders again and again as she demonstrates how this engages the upper body while inverting.

And now, after three years at handstands, I only just realized what might be one of the most important tips.  

Surprisingly, my arms escaped the list of parts I address when in the pose - my shoulders, my hands, my back, my core, my legs, my hips, my feet and my fear. 

My arms are supposed to be straight! 

I look to the pictures of my son and me in our handstands in the grass at Battery Park. He is on his way up, arms straight and strong. I have peaked with my arms bent, and I know I’m on my way down. 

The other day, I was contemplating skipping my evening yoga class before the instructor posted a picture on Facebook with a shout-out to her evening students. There she was in handstand with her arms straight and strong. 

I took one look and thought, I’d be silly to skip this! 

And that night, I pulled my mat to the wall during handstand. I placed my hands under my shoulders with one leg up and shifted myself forward. Without further ado, I pushed my other leg off the ground, lifted my hips, integrated my shoulders and straightened my arms. I pressed into handstand without touching the wall, working my fingers and my palms. 

 

And I was up and up and up. I did it once, and I did it again! My grandmother’s girdle didn’t even enter my mind, and the instructor snapped a photo. 

The only thing that shouldn’t be in the photo, she later said, is that wall. 

I took note but knew that the wall was not the only thing that had removed my fear.   

That night, I had gathered all the generous encouragement, advice and support that have come my way and gratefully locked all of it up in my core. And then I felt it lift and secure me into my handstand and into the night and into the next day. 

And there is nothing silly about that.

Inversions

Okay, let’s play with an inversion.

These are the words of my yoga instructor towards the end of each class. We get about five minutes to go upside down before our final stretches.

Any kind of inversion will do, as long as our legs are above our hearts.

Some people are in shoulder stand, on their backs with their feet in the air, arms tucked under the hips for support. Some people rest their legs up along the wall.

Others are in Headstand or Handstand or Forearm stand, trying one and then another other and stopping in between to chat.

When I practice yoga, I rarely look around the room. The music and the instruction put me in sort of a zone bound by the edges of my mat.

There are times after the practice when someone approaches me to comment on a pose, and I am always amazed that anyone was even watching. I assume everyone else is in his or her zone, too.

What is different now, though, is that during the inversion segment, I seem to have started to step out of bounds, looking past my mat to the others in the room. These days, I seem to be keener on watching people go upside down than in going upside down myself!

I do a few inversions, and then I sit back and look at the mirrored reflections of those around me.

The morning attendance has grown, and often the room can be crowded. There is a lot to see; everyone is doing something different. 

I feel like I am cheating on my practice when I take the focus off myself to view the others; but, even so, I sit back on my mat and look around at the differing shapes and sizes, ages and abilities, and ranges of form and grace.

Maybe it is not so yogic to look around, but I find that I do so without any judgment. 

More often, it is just with wonder.

I wonder how it is that I have come to embrace this practice and to share the room with all these people several times a week.

What if I never tried yoga? Would I be sleeping at this early hour while all these people would be here without me, upside down? Would I know what I was missing?

It briefly crosses my mind that while we might move in unison during the practice, we all have our own stories that brought us here, to yoga and to this class.

And each person’s story is as important as the others and just as important as mine. I think this is what makes me able to regard my fellow yogis with only wonder and amazement.

My lookabout is pretty brief. It lasts just long enough to give me a break from the inversions and, sometimes, can make me feel somewhat on my own in this roomful of people.

But that is okay.

I pop up into one more Handstand and hold it as long as I can.

 

I have my story and am grateful to be upside down in the company of others who have theirs, too.