Balance

"There will be an answer. Let it be.”     ~ Let It Be, The Beatles

I’m on my way to yoga. It’s the middle of winter, but I’m dressed as if it were spring!

The temperatures outside are a little out of whack, and, aside from the politics of the day, it’s all anyone seems to be talking about. As a matter of fact, just as soon as the Obamas left town the weather seems to have gone upside down! With their departure came a major shift in the atmosphere, and ever since then the heavens above have been a reflection of the chaos down here.  

In just a few short weeks, Mercury has gone into retrograde and back, and there’ve been bans and protests and alternate facts. And when the Snow moon tried to appear, full and big and bright one night, an eclipse swallowed it up and promptly turned off its light. And of course there was the shortage of yarn for certain pink hats, and then a comet streaked by soon after that!

Nobody likes it when things are out of whack. When that happens, most of us just want our balance back. And usually we’ll do anything to accomplish that, especially if we want things to be fixed fast. 

I leave the house in a sleeveless top and drive with the windows open to a practice that’s not too far from home. Within a few minutes, I’m already at the studio and parked. It’s been a while since I’ve practiced here, but these days I’ve somehow circled back to where I began, and I’ve been glad for the chance to learn as much as I can.

I used to be someone who had to fix things fast, whenever anything was out of whack. I think this was because for so long I was usually able to do most of what I set my mind to, and so I never really had to learn how to wait anything out. Most things just worked out. It was the same for my best friend. I even remember her mother fretting over our various successes.  

“What’s going to happen when one of you girls fails at something?” she would ask.

I never understood her worry; but, at the time, we were still young and hadn’t really made our way out into the world. Of course, since then, many years have passed, and during this time my train hasn’t always stayed on its track. I’ve had some times when I so desperately wanted my balance back, and I could never fix things fast enough for that.

But I’ve learned something important from all of those times. I’ve learned that even though life can turn on a dime, my balance can make its way back, if I just give it time. For the universe is a patient place, and it always circles back with a plan, if I can just wait.

I enter the studio and put away my things and roll out my mat in the practice room. Without realizing it, I’ve already gravitated toward a particular spot each time I’m here. It’s in the middle of the room, right up front where the wall breaks. It’s a good spot to go upside down, with the wall nearby to secure my inversions and with some extra space to my right, too, in case I lose my balance.

The music starts and we’re called to the top of our mats. Haste makes waste here, and before I know it we’re sitting in Chair pose. Right at the top of the practice and all the way through, we work on our balance. While still in Chair pose, we simply lift one foot and then place it down, and then lift the other and put that one down, too. 

Slowly the practice builds, and we start doing all sorts of things while still balancing on one foot. We lean into Warrior Three and bend at the knee and then straighten again. We turn to the side and fill the room with many Half Moons and then reverse our hips for their eclipse. 

We do this on the right and then we do it on the left. We’re told to move slowly, and it’s a challenge to keep my train on track; but, each time I wobble, I try not to fix things too fast.

“Relax,” the instructor tells the class. “Breathe.”

I pause and take a breath. The wait works and my balance circles back. 

Still on one foot, we return to Warrior Three and from there we tip into Standing Split. I tilt forward, lifting my back leg higher and higher, until I can’t help but keep going, and I place my hands on the ground and then lift myself upside down.

And this is what it’s all about for me. The practice of yoga is a quest for balance, and each practice is another chance for me to find it. And when I’m able to find it like this, I feel strong and brave and spry. And when I can’t, I don’t have to wonder why or fix anything fast. I just have to wait for the balance to make its way back. And that’s a good thing for me to practice. In fact, it’s the biggest lesson that I’ve learned on the mat.

“We’re in Plank!” I hear the instructor say.

I lower down and rejoin the others, and soon we bring ourselves even closer to the ground. We’re on our forearms now, and we tiptoe forward, hiking our hips up high in Dolphin pose. And, as before, I can’t help but keep going, and, in the same quest, I lift myself upside down again, only this time I’m trying for Scorpion.

Scorpion is a backbend, and I seem to have some resistance to it. The instructor comes over to help. He wants me to make a better circle by bending my knees with my feet toward the ground and then bending my back so that I make myself round.

“There’s balance in the circle,” he says.

He points out the part of my back where I need to open more in order to make this happen. It’s near the top and in the middle, in a spot that’s hard for me to find. But he tells me that once I’m able to find it, my whole practice will open up. And this plan appeals to me, even though I know that I’ll have to be patient. There’s something about the circle that’s universal, and that means it’ll take some time. 

Soon after, the practice is over, and I roll up my mat and gather my things. And, even though it’s time to leave, what I want to do is stay. I want to circle back to the practice room and listen to more music and go upside down again. But I know there’ll be another chance at the balance on another day, and so I say goodbye and step outside.

It’s dark, and the warm weather still surprises me. I walk over to my car and put my mat in the back, and as I reach up to close the hatch, I see a beautiful sight. All the stars are out tonight! They, too, have circled back to where they began, as part of their nightly universal plan. While I was inside practicing, each one had blinked into place, against the blackest sky, somewhere out in space.

And because tonight it’s pretty calm from where I stand, I get to catch the balance again, just by looking up at them.

Anne is the author of Unfold Your Mat, Unfold Yourself. Connect with her on her blog, Facebook and Twitter.

Reflection

In yoga, we practice in front of mirrors.

Not every studio is like this; in fact, I think on the whole, most are not.

So, almost every day and often first thing in the morning, I am eye to eye with myself in front of floor to ceiling mirrors.

And, because my mat is placed closely by, it is a pretty close up view.

I see myself, then, like this, head to toe, in a little outfit, hair back, and many times with not much make up.

Basically, arriving at the yoga studio is like coming out of hiding. I am there on my mat with no armor, so to speak.

Seeing myself up close and personal on such a regular basis has been enlightening. It has made me see a clearer picture of myself, in general.

I have never considered myself vain, and after I am dressed and ready to go in the morning, I rarely check the mirror again during the day. I have never been the type to primp throughout the day.

In essence, I do not really look to see myself on a regular basis, but yoga is forcing me to do so!

For much of the practice, I am pretty oblivious of my reflection. In fact, at one point, there was a photo shoot in the studio, and the instructor gave me some photos. It was a kick to see myself doing yoga, and I realized that even though I practice in front of the mirrors, I never really see myself.

In many poses, we have to find our Dristi, or focal point, to help us balance. This happens in Eagle and Dancer and Chair.

Look at a stare point, the instructor says. It can be your eyes or a point on the floor in front of you.
Being in the front, I am forced to look at my own eyes, and I am surprised to find it is a little disconcerting.

I balance and my gaze flits. I look from the reflection of my eyes to that of the back windows. I look to the mirror at whatever is over my shoulder. And I glance once more at my own eyes before looking aside again.

Why is this so weird for me?

I always thought I knew myself so well, but I think the discomfort in seeing myself eye to eye tells me I might not really be as familiar as I think I am.

I cannot seem to pass my own the stare test.

If I were to be honest, I would say looking into my own eyes presents a challenge to really, really see myself. And, if it was easier to do, I would probably have an easier time letting others really see me, too.

Everyone loves you, Mom, says my daughter, repeatedly. She tells me I should see myself how others see me.

But, I know experiences can skew one’s views, and I think this is what happened to me.

Yoga has made me stronger. It has given me muscles, for sure; but, it has also given me the courage to see what broke so long ago. I had not really looked in years.

It has been difficult to look at my eyes in the mirror because when confronted with myself, I see those pieces, and I am critical.

Yoga is teaching me to have compassion for myself and to build my strength from there.

At the end of each practice, we hold our hands in prayer in a seated position, and we bow our heads and thank the teacher within.

I do so with gratitude because, through yoga, I am healing with some long overdue self love.

My Feet

I never really gave my feet a passing thought. 

I have just taken them for granted, even with my father as a practicing podiatrist for nearly 40 years. 

But, yoga has changed that.

Now I know my feet are a precious commodity. 

It is not that I have ever really ignored my feet.

I keep them pedicured as a matter of course. And I decorate them with two toe rings, both representing something important to me.   

When my adult daughter was little, she briefly attended a private school and could not choose her wardrobe or wear jewelry.

On her last day, we bought a toe ring each, representing a sort of freedom of expression that she had not been able to enjoy.

We have worn them ever since. A decade later, from college, she mailed me a new toe ring, updating our freedom of expression and sending the message that she still knew to seek it.

A few years following, my son spent a college semester abroad in Australia.

Far from home and knowing no one, he settled in fast, making another home away from home.

During a visit with him, we stopped at an outdoor flea market where a jeweler fit me with a second toe ring.

To me, it represented courage and an openness to new possibilities, both of which my son demonstrated by taking such a journey.

More recently, though, I realized my feet were not so much pretty as they were precious when I found myself standing on them for 12 hours straight for three days in a row, working in the wrong shoes.

Each evening, my feet cried with new blisters, and it actually hurt to walk.

All I could think was that I would be out of commission for yoga.

On the first day of working like this, I wore beautiful new shoes.

They had a platform and did not seem to have too much of an incline, and I thought I would be fine.

It was not until about the sixth hour in them that I realized my new shoes had a time limit.

Another six hours, and I hobbled into the house after driving home barefoot.

The hour was late, but I still tried to pamper my feet before sleep.

All I could think was that I had two more days of working like this before returning to yoga, and I could not imagine doing so.

That night, my feet got the full spa treatment at home. I bathed them. I put cream on them. I rested them. 

The next day, I lowered my fashion standards and changed up my shoes.

I put on what I considered not my best look, a more conservative pair of shoes with a lower heel.

Turns out, these shoes had a longer shelf life but still did not protect my feet from their fate.

I went home that night with new blisters.

Again, they got the full spa treatment.

Finally, on the last of these three days, I just slipped on my comfy, water-stained TOMS, a pair of shoes that have seen better days and are usually only reserved for trips to the yoga studio.

But, on this day, they went out in full form.

And that night, my feet were sore but not too sad.

And the next day, I was pleased to realize they felt fine enough for morning yoga. 

The first half of the practice is a flow, all of which involve standing poses.

We take many, many steps through some lunges, Warrior I and Warrior II, Standing Split and Dancer, Chair Pose and Extended Side Angle, Reverse Side Angle and more.

The rest of the practice takes place while seated, on our backs and on our stomachs.

I am sure there are other parts of me that I take for granted and probably should not.

And, even though yoga has taught me to appreciate my well-being on all levels, I had never really thought about how dependent I am on being physically able.

That morning before yoga, I awoke and swung my feet over the side of the bed.

The bed is tall, and I am not, and my feet do not reach the ground. My painted toes with their rings hung overboard briefly before I touched down with no pain.

That morning, I felt grateful for not only all the steps yoga has taught me, but also for the simple fact that I could take them.

A Child

Am I supposed to heed a message when I hear the same thing more than once from two unrelated sources?

I am thinking so, even if it is a message I do not want to hear.

The message today: In many respects, I am like a child.

At almost 50 years old, how can this be?

When I first started yoga, the poses really clicked with childhood memories of tumbling on my front lawn with neighborhood kids, of gym class in elementary school, of good times when I was little with no cares and no fears.

I was all over the trampoline; I could do walkovers and back bends. I could cartwheel and somersault all over the front yard.   

And now, I am grown.

A responsible adult as my college-aged nephew teases me, laughing at what he considers ironic.

To him, I am an overgrown kid!

He does not think like I did when I was little, that once you are an adult, you are all grown up.

That was an endpoint in my young mind.

As an adult, I would not have guessed that I would be doing handstands and yoga whatnot at my age, much less looking forward to it and doing it all week long, having  never really exercised before.

In that way, I do feel like a child, and that is a good feeling.

So, when someone I look to for wise advice told me that he sees me almost like a child, I was a little surprised.

I have raised my children on my own, handled my own finances, bought a house, a car, found a job and generally have made lots and lots of “grown up” decisions over the years.

He was, however, referring to another type of growing up.

He was talking about growing into my whole self, not looking to others for validation and growing into what he calls my own power as a woman. 

It gave me pause because I never see myself as challenged in this way, and it made me think of the profound quote from an essay by Marianne Williamson that I had previously made certain to impress upon my children:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

I am not supposed to be afraid of myself!

I had my annual physical later that same day only to have the doctor tell me that my lab results were so clean and healthy, they looked like those of a child’s.

You don’t drink, you don’t smoke, and you don’t have any fun!  he joked.

A joke to him, but real to me.

I have lived a quiet life for some time now. Most likely, I have not realized my potential power.

Unfaced fears can act as a fortress. And, apparently, I have launched my children but not myself.

Within a few days, I was back in the yoga studio.

We were in Utkatasana, or Chair Pose.

Standing with legs and feet squeezed tightly together, I dipped my hips low with knees bent, heart lifted and arms sparked upwards alongside my ears.

It is a pose that we do several times in every practice.

It is nothing new.

This is a familiar pose, the instructor said. But, today, I want it to be brand new to you. I want you to experience it like a child.

I sat in my imaginary chair like a child.

It is a difficult pose, but this grown up yogi found comfort in her seat, even so.